Three Wise Monkeys
by pale-blue11
Summary: It was possible that the Truth just didn't want him. It was possible that it wanted to see him grow to yearn the blank simplicity of the Gate. Why else would it not let him die? Warnings inside.
1. The First Friday

_**Three Wise Monkeys**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**So this is my first attempt at Fullmetal Alchemist fanfiction, and I'm a little nervous. I hope you all like it—or at least give it a chance. Thank you for reading even this far :)**

**WARNINGS: character death, blood, language. More will be added as they become necessary.**

**Please, if you don't think you'll be okay reading this, _don't read it_. Some later themes are fairly strong.**

**With that aside, I hope you enjoy the first chapter :)**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters**

_**CHAPTER ONE • The First Friday**_

It smelt. Badly.

Cigarettes and alcohol proved the biggest offenders, though the consumers of these goods were not far behind in terms of filth. The memories of their visits remained thick in the air. And from Ed's position beside the bathroom doors, the stench of piss and vomit was all too clear. He sat on the chipped wooden bench with a gloved hand slipped discretely beneath his nose.

Water lay before him in a glass of questionable sanitation, being spun idly with his free hand. He had to appear casual. Just another tired individual worn down after a hard day's work. Nothing special.

A cap—borrowed from a reluctant Mustang—concealed most of his golden hair, and Ed's bright red coat had been left behind in the office. He barely felt like himself, and was hoping that he barely _looked_ like himself, as well. After all, his target could appear at any time.

There were only four people in the bar—including Ed and the grotty bartender. The other two, a man and a woman, were equally less-suspicious. The man was far too scrawny to be held accountable for the crimes of the murderer Ed chased, and the woman had passed out not five minutes after entering the bar.

It was still only eleven, so while Ed's hopes of ending the entire saga were dwindling with each passing minute, he hadn't given up on the possibility of a late arrival.

One late arrival in particular.

As Ed watched, the woman blinked out of her alcohol-induced coma and slid into a much more respectable position—namely, _not_ lying on the hard benches along the wall. She adjusted her pale green dress and swiped a lock of hair out of her eyes before unsteadily tottering to her feet on heels that _promised_ a broken ankle.

Ed saw the man's shoulders stiffen as an uncoordinated hand rubbed along his jawline and the woman collapsed onto his shoulder. Even from across the small bar, Edward could hear the slur on her words, if not the words themselves. Whatever she offered, the man declined.

Edward's plan to stay until midnight seemed impossible. A suspect hadn't turned up—barely anyone had—and the woman was starting to wobble over to his table. If there was one thing Ed didn't need after his hellish evening, it was the drunken advances of someone twenty years his senior.

But he wasn't fast enough.

A clammy hand looped around his wrist before he made it two steps.

"An' where're _you_ goin', sweetheart?" That was accompanied by a loud hiccup and the strong scent of alcohol.

Ed kept his eyes down and face turned away. They were the only two major aspects of his appearance they hadn't been able to disguise. "Bathroom."

"How 'bout I walk you there?"

Shaking his head, Ed tried to slip out of her grasp. "I'll be fine." He tugged. "Really." He tugged harder, then started to pry her fingers away. "_Really_."

The woman pouted beside his ear, her breath warm on his neck. "I don' think so. How 'bout I help you?"

"Lady." The bartender watched her sternly until she released Ed and stepped away. "This isn't that kind of place."

Ed was struggling to maintain his quiet façade. If he blew it then, he might never have been allowed back into the bar. It was their biggest lead, and a pitiful one at that.

Mustang's taunts would only get worse if he messed it up completely.

The woman sniffed in a haughty manner and staggered off to the exit, muttering to herself the entire way. The open door let in a mouthful of fresh air, which Ed greedily accepted.

"Well, go ahead."

It took a moment for Ed to realise he was being spoken to. He replied with an intelligent, "Huh?"

The bartender gestured to the empty bar with a bitter smile on his jolly face. "If you use it quickly, I can lock up for the night. No one else'll come this late."

Faking gratitude, Ed skirted towards the bathrooms. "Oh, thanks."

He couldn't have felt more self-conscious if there was a flashing sign above his head declaring his most embarrassing secret to the world. The only sound came from his boots. They made loud thumps on the creaking floorboards, which grew more strained as he walked into the small adjoining corridor.

The corridor was short and blemished with two rotting doors, each fighting desperately to stay upright. Ed's nose crinkled once he was certain the other man couldn't see. The reports stated that Jeremy Colt (aged twenty-nine and six feet tall) often frequented the foul place, but Ed had waited for over five hours, and hadn't seen a single man matching such a description. It would have been much easier if there had been a photo attached to the witness' statements.

Ed stepped up to the doors, the stench only worsening until he was forced to cover his mouth with a sleeve. Was it too late to back out? There were two words on the old wood. Using an educated guess—because no amount of scrutiny could ascertain it—Ed decided that they read 'men' and 'ladies'. He doubted any proper 'ladies' would have ever visited.

The men's bathroom seemed the best place to start, so Edward pushed on the door with his free hand. The automail made a hollow sound, as if the inside of the wood had been eaten away, leaving only the decrepit outer shell. Ed continued cautiously, flicking his eyes around the room. Sickening yellow light sputtered from dirty globes hanging from the ceiling by protruding wires, illuminating cracked tiles and broken stalls.

Letting out a quiet noise of disgust, Ed turned back, resisting the urge to slam the door. He wasn't going to spend time in that room just for the sake of a lie.

But a knife at his throat forced him to freeze, and rather quickly. Whoever had him didn't say anything, but pretended to calm him with a quiet "_Shhh…"_

The blade was cold and close. If he so much as shifted his weight, it would be lodged in his neck before he knew what was going on.

"Is this the one?" asked the same woman he saw in the bar. But her voice was steady and sober, as was the poorly-manicured hand wrapped around her weapon.

"Yeah." The new person was timid, tentative, but his tone held conviction. "Yeah, that's him. I knew they'd send someone eventually."

"Well, congratulations. You're now a wanted criminal."

Something small and sharp poked into the muscle of Ed's upper arm, causing him to flinch away. A warning trail of warmth trickled into the collar of his shirt, staining it red, and he stopped again. Heaviness filled his arm, making his fingers tingle as if his blood had been replaced with lead. It spread with every beat of his heart, which was quickening by the second, until even the sensation of the blade digging into his neck was dulled.

"What does that one do?" The man moved around until he was just barely visible in Ed's peripheral vision.

The woman snorted. "Hell if I know. I just grabbed it off that other guy. Y'know, the doctor one."

"Mike."

Ed found his eyes struggling to stay open, but that name pierced his mind like a glass of cool, refreshing water, or perhaps a strong mug of coffee. Mike Fellows was one of the later victims. When he died, he left a wife, two kids, and a small fortune in cenz. He was Jeremy Colt's general practitioner.

Every one of the victims had a connection like that.

The room was distorting; the few wall tiles that hadn't already fallen dripped down like melting wax, pooling on the floor in an olive green mess. The floor itself had taken on a life of its own, and was frantically trying to throw Ed off his feet. It was only the strong grip on his shoulder and the knife in his throat that kept him upright.

But then the knife was gone, and so was the woman. The unwashed concrete and tiles rushed up to kick him, striking his automail with so much force as to cause the resounding _clang!_ to echo around the bathroom for _hours._ It was so loud, so violent, that Ed felt the vibrations in his teeth.

Then everything went silent. The room became dark. He couldn't feel the ground—only the warmth at his throat and numbness in his arm. It was as if the entire world was waiting. Waiting for him. Waiting for whatever came after the dreadful disorientation.

_Pain._

It was so sudden that Ed hardly registered it.

For a second, he saw the blade. It was an ordinary kitchen knife—not the large type, used for dicing carrots or onions—the type that was set beside a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. But the edge was filed to a point so sharp that it had no trouble entering the tough muscle of Ed's abdomen. It's silver gleam was hidden beneath a red outer garment.

It happened in near-complete silence. He couldn't move, couldn't yell, couldn't perform alchemy. Couldn't help himself. After so many fights against chimeras, homunculi, and other such nightmares, he ended up facing death at the hands of a man. An ordinary man. The same man who his gaze had passed over so many times that night. The man he had been _sure_ would have trouble opening a heavy door.

_He was going to die._

He was going to die over a damn oversight. Just one mistake.

Al would hate him.

Winry would cry.

Granny would lose another child.

And Ed would have let them all down. He didn't have enough time to count all the promises he must have broken. He'd be at the Gate soon.

His fingers trembled, but that was all he could do. He couldn't even form a fist, let alone punch someone with it. But… But…

He _wasn't _about to give up.

Ed took in a deep, shuddering breath, hoping to ignore the blade making mincemeat of his body. He would gather all of his fading energy, and convert it into a shout that would send the bartender running. Then… Then the… hospital could fix him.

As Edward slowly opened his mouth, fighting to stay awake—_he couldn't fall asleep, damn it!_—the blows ceased. Or maybe he was just too far gone to feel them anymore. Perhaps it—

_Fuck!_

Ed's eyes flew open—funny, he didn't realise they had closed—and he let out a noise. A sort of gurgling sigh. There was something cold—_something hot_—_in his throat!_ Air escaped around the knife. A death whistle. Maybe the Gate would use it to find his soul faster.

He didn't notice the blood frothing from his gaping mouth. He didn't notice as the man—_it was Jeremy Colt! It was!_—wiped his red hands on Ed's coat. He didn't notice the window breaking, nor the person who clambered out of it.

He didn't notice anything for a long time.

**XxX**

Everything hurt. Even his ears ached. He didn't expect the moment after death to be painful.

So maybe he wasn't quite there. Maybe the Gate was waiting to collect his soul, forcing him to suffer through as much agony as possible. He had caused it enough trouble already, and _'equivalent exchange_' was a rule he had heard often enough.

Ed just hoped it would stop soon. If he had to die, he wanted it to be quick. He wanted it to be _over._

He could hear voices. The Gate's prisoners, protectors, and guardians. Would he become one of those long, shadowy arms? The arms that tore his family to pieces? Is that what happened to those who go against the laws of alchemy?

His pain was lessening. Good. He was on his way, then. To death and whatever lay beyond. Red lightning flashed in the darkness, sketching out the faces of his family, friends, colleagues, and enemies. Maybe he would see them later. But Alphonse shook his head and smiled, everyone else echoing his movement. Ghosts. All of them. No—_Edward_ was the ghost.

"_Not yet_," they whispered. Fingers of crimson materialized in the void, each reaching out for him. "_Not now_."

Edward tried to frown, and found himself able. Immediately, the dreamscape disappeared, but the aches and pains of reality never returned. Other sensations did. The hard, broken tile under his back and shoulder, a sharp tickling in his throat. His clothes were damp and wet. Water? No... Ed cracked open his eyes, coughing another mouthful of blood.

His neck was stiff and felt _wrong_. Ed lifted a tentative hand and grasped the hilt of a knife, protruding from his throat.

_Impossible_.

Quickly, he reached up to grasp the slippery end with both hands. The automail slit his skin and the knife was stuck fast, but with more and more blood flowing over his hands, Ed managed to pull it out. It instantly became easier to breathe, and so he started to pant desperately, sucking in the air he needed to make up for.

The window swung ajar, letting in the noise of the outside nightlife. It was getting pretty loud in the tiny pub, too. People yelled and clambered and, as Ed watched, a loud, flashing vehicle sped past. The lights briefly illuminated the bathroom, showing the bloody stain in all its glory.

Ed leapt to his feet, all thoughts of confusion gone. They were replaced with ones of pure panic. No one could find him like that—covered in blood without a single visible wound. It wasn't _natural_, he thought with a jolt. _He_ wasn't natural. Not anymore.

He took a step towards the window, blood drenched boots sliding on the blood drenched floor. His movements were jerky, like a puppet restored to life. A broken puppet, with coat hangers instead of its original arm and leg. Thin, weak coat hangers that could barely support his weight. But as he moved on, he did so with more ease. He reached the window in seconds and climbed out of it in less. The police and medics burst into the recently-vacated bathroom not even a minute later, but Ed was already gone.

He stumbled down the street, clothes slapping wetly, _sickeningly_, against his sides. Blood had seeped into his automail, stiffening the mechanics in the same way as it had slowed his mind. He could form a fist, and did so when he entered an area with no street lamps. His blade was still out, swinging at his side as he quickened his pace to a jog. Hair stuck to his face and the back of his neck with something more than sweat. A shower. He needed a shower.

He needed to _think_.

His actions grew smoother until he was sprinting, hurrying back to Headquarters. Al wasn't there, as far as he knew. He was in Risembool, paying a short visit to Winry and Pinako while Ed was busy with work.

Ed could only hope he hadn't come back early. His appearance could be hard to explain.

Street lamps began to dot the sidewalks, their small puddles of light casting dim luminance on the ground. Ed avoided them all. His mind was on one track:

Get home, and figure out what the _hell_ was going on.

Out of nowhere, three shadowy figures stumbled into the street. Their arrival was punctuated by laughter, yelling, and drunken belches. With no time to stop or slow down, Edward slammed straight into the first one.

"Oh, _man_," the guy groaned miserably as Ed scrambled to his feet, horrified. "Why'd you do that for?"

"Hey, Paul," one of his friends giggled in a decidedly feminine fashion. "You fell over."

"I know, idiot."

Ed ran off down the road without looking back. No more than thirty second later, he heard their cries of alarm.

The journey back to the dormitories was endless. Traveling the backstreets, Ed saw a side of Central that had previously been hidden. Hidden, but not unnoticed. It was difficult to smother such a large part of the city. About a kilometre from the safety of his dorm, Ed was forced to stop.

Red boot prints marred the footpath. Most were almost invisible, but others—like the one Ed had noticed—were much too obvious. It was hard to believe that blood still clung to his boots after his frantic sprint, but when he glanced down, Ed admitted that it was entirely possible. No matter how far he ran, he was still covered in it. That wouldn't change.

Acting quickly, Edward slung off his dark outer coat. Several droplets of blood spattered the cobblestone path like disfigured rain. He balled the wet material up and held it under his arm as he tugged off the offending shoes.

That was a shame. Those were his favourite boots.

It seemed his socks were the only clean item he had on him. Ed spared them a small, cynical smirk before starting off again, his coat and shoes hugged tightly to his chest. As the promise of a shower drew closer, he found himself feeling more and more confident that he would actually get there. Even so, the heavy lump in his stomach never lessened. And it would only get harder as he approached military headquarters. A feeble voice in the back of his mind told him that, and Ed was unable to counter its pure honesty. The streets were becoming brighter, people were less rare—even when avoiding busy areas—and Ed had already spotted two military personnel. He vaguely wondered if they would recognise him beneath his sanguine disguise. Questions were the last thing he needed.

After an eternity, and all too soon, Ed leant against the wall outside the dormitories. On both sides, twin street lamps shined, but Edward himself stood shrouded in gloom. He was gathering his energy—quickly, before reports of a blood-covered teenager reached the authorities' ears.

His rest was cut short by a car shooting past the intersection a hundred metres to his right. He froze, but it was gone before he had time to form a plan. Time was running out, and he needed to dispose of his soiled clothes before doing anything else.

Spinning around sharply, Ed started to take both his eyes and fingers across the wall. There should have been a tiny marking, right...

_There._

He dropped to his knees, ignoring the crack of his automail as it hit. It was a bit of a struggle to place his hands together while balancing both a coat and boots, but desperation lends strength.

And he was desperate.

The ground crackled with alchemic energy, brilliant light flaring up around each individual cobblestone. Ed dropped through the newly-formed hole and braced himself for the rough landing. His feet struck the compact dirt floor first, but the momentum send him tumbling forward until he had a mouthful of sand and a pissed expression.

A sharp clap and heavy bang sealed the hole shut as if it had never existed. That was Ed's plan, though he'd never used the escape before. And he never thought he'd have to use it from the outside. Mostly, he had expected it to help him elude Mustang. The reality was more unlikely than imagination, in Ed's situation.

The tunnel shrunk, until Ed had to bend his neck to get through. The walls were coarse, filling his grimy hair with more filth. But at least—through careful planning—it wasn't far to his room. He was on the lowest floor, much to the other occupants' delight. It left the higher dorms—the ones with views of Central, and larger living space—free for them. But Ed didn't care about any of that. His room was the most convenient.

Basically home, basically _safe, _Edward performed another act of alchemy and revealed the extra door to his dormitory. He pulled himself up on arms shaking with fatigue, and collapsed right next to his bed. The shower was so far away. It was with great effort that he stood. The events of the night had finally hit him, and Ed felt completely drained. He just wanted to clean up and sleep for days. _Weeks_, even. He had made it home, so there was only one thing left on his hastily-constructed checklist.

With that in mind, Ed lurched into the bathroom and dumped the coat and boots before him. It was nearing midnight, but no one would find anything strange with the water going on at that time. Many of the soldiers stayed out last drinking, and Ed was fairly sure it was Friday, too. He was having trouble remembering his own name, but God-forbid he lost the day of the week!

Shuddering, Ed stepped straight into the spray. Water hit his shirt and flew off, slightly pink in colour. _He needed it off_. Gone.

Material ripped in his hurry, and rose-coloured water entered the bathtub at his feet. As he threw down first the shirt, then his pants, it turned red. Almost as red as Ed's chest.

He looked down at himself in a muted horror, only just starting to imagine the state he had been in. Though no wounds remained, their bloody silhouettes did. His entire torso must have been barely more than mince and bone when Colt left him.

Which begged the question: _why was he alive_?

Maybe the Gate just _really_ hated him. Maybe it liked seeing him reduced to a broken doll, hardly human. His eyes widened at a more worrying thought. What if it only saved him so it could see that same scene repeated _again_ and _again_, year after year? Was he unable to escape a fate that involved nothing more than pain and death? Wasn't his daily life bad enough?

Ed stared for a few long seconds, then began to scrub madly at his bare skin. A bar of soap lay on the edge of the bath, but he ignored it. His hands would work just as well. Or even better. The pain of his nails and automail raking down his skin cleared his mind, made it easier to think.

Scarlet light shone on the bathroom tiles as his self-inflicted wounds started to heal and Ed scrubbed harder. He was normal—_he was_!—and when the residual effects of the Gate wore off and were used up, he could believe that again.

Maybe.

He felt stained. No matter how much skin he scoured off, it wasn't enough. He could still see his own blood, everywhere. All over the bathroom, all over the city, all over himself. Ed was tainted by his own blood.

As the tears began to fall, he wondered if they, too, were red.

**Please tell me what you think :) chapter two'll be up in a week's time**


	2. The First Monday

**_Three Wise_**_ **Monkeys**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed last chapter, I really appreciate hearing your thoughts :) This is one of the shorter chapters (all expect the last have been typed and edited), and I'm sorry for that. Hopefully it's good enough to make up for that. (Hi Meghan :D)**

**WARNINGS: character death, blood, language. More will be added as they become necessary.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters**

_**CHAPTER TWO**_** • _The First Monday_**

_Dearest Central Daily,_

_I am writing to—in a sense—give myself up._

_While I will not disclose my name or any such personal information, please believe that all other admittances are correct and true. I have noticed that, out of all the major papers, your corporation has covered my story the most extensively. I cannot express how flattered I am by your efforts._

_Of my eight greatest works, seven have been documented by your journalists. While I will not speak of the latest death, please note that the mistake was not the fault of Central Daily. I will leave out the victim's name so that this letter may be published._

_This is not a letter of warning, nor a letter of want. It's simply an introduction, since I hope to continue to bring you business._

_Regards,_

_No One._

**XxX**

"I'm telling you, it's him."

Roy shook his head, pinching his nose in a familiar, exasperated way. "For the last time, Fullmetal, you have no evidence to support that. You said yourself that you couldn't find him Friday night, and this writing doesn't match Jeremy Colt's!"

Ed snatched the letter from his superior's desk. On anyone else, his glare would have at least caused a flinch, but Roy gave no reaction save for annoyance.

The strange article had appeared in the Central Daily that morning, and barely hours after its publication, Ed had found the original copy. Though 'found' was a fairly inaccurate word. He doubted the letter was real, but something had to happen! He just needed to convince Mustang that Colt was 'No One' and the case would be over. Colt would be behind bars. Ed would be slightly more satisfied. Slightly.

Ed let out a loud growl of frustration—he wanted it to be _over_!—and Mustang glanced up from the work he was pretending to do.

"Look, Fullmetal," Roy began, rubbing his temples as if he had a headache, "I can tell you're missing your brother, but that's not the fault of the military or even this Colt guy-"

"I know, I know." Ed flapped his hands dismissively. The action reminded him of how hard it was to clean his automail that night. He continued to speak in a mocking tone, "Alphonse chose to leave so the mission would go more quickly. Is that what you were gonna say?"

Roy smirked. "More or less. But let's go through the facts of this case again, alright?"

Edward sighed dramatically and resisted the urge to flop bonelessly into the visitor's chair. He didn't need another excuse for Roy to tease him.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'." Mustang nodded to himself, ignoring Ed's exaggerated eye-roll. "From this letter—if we assume it's real—we can determine that there was a victim the night of your incompetence."

Ed hissed through his teeth.

"This would explain the blood in that dingy excuse for a pub." There, Roy's nose crinkled almost imperceptibly. He was probably remembering the smell. Ed might have laughed if he wasn't doing the same. "But this time, he chose to take the body with him."

"That makes no sense," Ed pointed out. "Colt's not strong enough to carry a body so far in that time."

"Fullmetal..." Roy's eyebrow twitched, causing Ed great joy. "Just for one minute... pretend that you're not immediately right, and check out every option before finding problems with the _only one you believe_. You're being contradictory, shrimp."

A low growling entered the office, and it took both occupants several confused moments to discover that it was coming from Ed. Roy leant back, pushing his paperwork away.

"No yelling today? I never thought you'd run out of words so fast."

It was with a burning passion that Ed wished he could have a different superior officer. "Watch what you say, bastard. This case is important."

"Is that so?"

"Bastard," Ed muttered once again under his breath. Louder, he said, "If you're not gonna help, I'll go out and find him."

Roy shook his head, smirk widening. "I don't give you permission to do so. Not until you show me proof."

"I'll do that," Ed called as he walked out. If the words sounded a little angrier than he planned, so be it. "I'll find proof so solid not even Armstrong could knock it down!"

"Wait, Fullmetal!" Roy called as Edward's hand touched the doorknob. Ed turned and raised an eyebrow expectantly. "You're going after who may be a dangerous killer."

"I know."

"It might be wise to bring somebody along."

There was no reply.

"Maybe an adult?" Roy offered calmly. "Someone to hold your hand as you cross the street?"

Without another word, Ed yanked open the door and slammed it behind him. It made quite the considerable crash—nearly enough to satisfy Ed's rage at the Colonel.

Nearly, but not quite.

**XxX**

"Yes, Al, I'm fine." Ed balled the phone cord in his fist, gently working his fingers through the tangles.

His brother's anxious voice came through the phone not a second later. "But I saw the papers! Are you saying that this is the guy you're after?"

Ed sighed wearily. "Yeah, that's what I said. Do you have any help for your poor older brother?"

"Don't get yourself into these situations."

"Well it's not as if I have a choice!"

Then it was Alphonse's turn to sigh. "Whatever you say, Brother."

"Can you help me or not?"

"Of course." Al sounded annoyed, though Edward couldn't see why. Shouldn't he be happy to receive such an impromptu phone call? "You wanted a way to find evidence?"

"That's right," Ed affirmed with a grin. Finally, they were getting somewhere.

"Why don't you bring him in for questioning?"

Ed scowled, knowing that Al would feel it through the phone. "The colonel said I wasn't allowed."

Al hummed thoughtfully. "Then... You could stake out his house? Maybe follow him with a camera or something?"

Moments away from disagreeing, Ed froze and thought about it. "Yeah..." he said after a long pause. "That could work... Mustang won't need to know how I got it, as long as I find some evidence."

"Sure, Brother. Just be careful."

Ed nodded emphatically. "Yeah! Always!"

There was a strong silence from the other end of the phone. When Alphonse next spoke, he was quiet. "Brother? Should... Should I come back to Central? I could help you."

"Nah." Ed let go of the handful of plastic coated wires. They bounced down in more of a knot than when he had started. "I'll be done soon. Say 'hi' to Winry and Granny for me."

"Okay."

"I'll see you soon."

"Okay."

Ed felt guilt settle into the pit of his stomach. Al thought he didn't want to see him, but that couldn't be more of a lie. He just didn't want his little brother dragged into it, too. "Bye, Al."

"Bye, Brother."

Ed went to hang up, but Alphonse had one more thing to add.

"Make sure you keep your promise. Come back."

Ed gave a tight, sad smile. "I will."

It was Al who hung up the phone first, so Ed was left listening to the dial tone until he finally found the will to put it down.

Someone knocked impatiently on the outside of the public phone booth and Ed looked up at them in alarm, before relaxing. They called something through the glass, gesturing angrily.

"Ah, yeah." Ed gave a quick nod and pocketed his spare change. The man huffed as he stepped out, but Ed merely rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to apologise for talking to his brother. It was a public phone booth, after all.

The sky had filled with clouds while Ed was talking, casting a gloomy grey light down on Central. Ed tried not to think about it too much. He was trying not to think much at all, lately. Whenever he did, he found his mind drifting to the events of the last Friday. It wasn't pleasant, to say the least.

Therefore, Ed chose to ignore it. If he didn't acknowledge his unnatural resurrection, it never happened. That was the way it worked. There was only one other person who knew about his death.

Colt. His freaking murderer. Ed had to make sure that fact remained a secret.

He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his pants and took off towards the dormitory. With Mustang unwilling to give up any information, Ed resigned himself to several hours of sneaky research.

**Soooo... please let me know what you think :)**


	3. The First Wednesday and Thursday

_**Three Wise Monkeys**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**First of all—happy 18th to Meghan! I hope you have a wonderful day :) Secondly, I need to explain something about the chapters. I wrote the first few on a train, so they're fairly short. After this one, though, they reach a more acceptable length and I won't feel as bad about the week-long updates (I just finished the last chapter and it's close to 10 000 words :D). That being said, if I'd be happy to upload chapter four this coming Wednesday if I reach 14 reviews }:) Most of the chapters are split according to the dates in the story, but this is both Wednesday and Thursday, so I'll make sure to differentiate between the two.**

**WARNINGS: Character death, blood, language. More will be added as necessary.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.**

_**CHAPTER THREE • The First Wednesday**_

Jeremy Colt lived at 32 Seaview Road, Central. Ed didn't know where the name came from—no one in Central had a sea view. Maybe a group of wishful thinkers, or simply a bunch of idiots.

Either way, that didn't matter.

Whether it was the king of a lost nation or a beggar passing through who christened Seaview Road, it was really just a street and a name. Something to attach to a greeting card.

But 32 Seaview Road was different. At least for Ed. Behind the unkempt garden and yellowing door lurked the person who haunted his thoughts in both wakeful and sleeping hours—no matter how many times he cast him away. A pale, weak man with nothing but a sharpened kitchen knife and some luck.

But if Colt was lucky to have killed Edward, then what could Ed's subsequent resurrection have been called? Luckier? A miracle?

No. None of those words fit.

It was... _unnatural_.

And it wouldn't happen again. Ed refused to let anyone beat him twice—even once was a blow to his pride! Colt had seen his chance, and taken it.

It was the only chance Ed would allow him.

Really, since he knew exactly who the killer was, the mission was simple. It could be narrowed down into two main points:

1\. Find enough evidence to appease Mustang.

2\. Put Colt behind bars.

It may have seemed an easy punishment for a serial killer—after all the lives Colt had ruined, shouldn't his own life be offered in exchange?—but the way Ed saw it, if Colt was thrown in gaol, they would need someone to question him.

Ed's fist would do nicely.

He would throw all his confusion—all his anger—into Colt's face. It was all Colt's fault. Ed's new... abilities... Before that night, he had been normal. Well, close enough. As close as a fifteen-year-old state alchemist could be.

Being merely a child prodigy paled in comparison to a self-healing freak who _just couldn't die._

Sometimes, Ed wished his life could be simple. School, friends, whatever was left of a family. Was that too much to ask for?

Yet he knew that ship had sailed as soon as he uttered those few, fateful words.

"Let's bring her back..."

Even so many years later, the emotions in that sentence twisted his stomach and made him queasy. When he was younger, he attributed that nausea to excitement. The prospect of seeing their mother again. But, as a child who grew up too fast, Ed knew what it was.

_Fear_.

The same fear he felt when anything struck the back of his brother's neck. The same fear he felt when the chance that he and Al might fail snuck into his mind. The same fear he felt when he glanced up at 32 Seaview Road.

Ed didn't think he had died before—unless his visit to the Gate was a type of death—so the idea of knowing one man could kill him was daunting to say the least. Especially a man as... average as Colt.

That, more than anything, was what made him pause at the end of the street. It was lined with half-dying trees and rickety fences; everything that screamed: "_Warning! Unsafe!" _It was the type of neighbourhood the police would have a field day with. The phone box he stood beside appeared to be the newest thing in sight, so Ed wasn't about to move. Unless it was _away_, that is.

He had come to find evidence, but Edward found himself suddenly unwilling. It wasn't that he didn't want to prove that cocky colonel wrong, nor that he didn't want to see Colt punished. No, it was much less complicated.

Ed was scared. For the first time in his life, a thorough plan seemed the best idea. He didn't know if he could be killed, and he wasn't willing to find out.

So he wouldn't continue. He wouldn't keep going past the phone box. It wasn't safe.

Stepping back, Ed pulled his black coat tighter around his shoulders. A cloud had passed over the morning sun, casting him into shadow. He resisted the urge to look around as he walked off.

Everything was different. Life and death were no longer defined by strict guidelines, and the Fullmetal alchemist was running away from a fight.

He wanted Al.

_**The First Thursday**_

It was Thursday, and copies of Colt's letter had made to every major newspaper in the city. He had collected each one, placing them in an empty kitchen drawer until a more permanent option was found.

They must be looking for him. The police, detectives—maybe even the military, if they found it important enough. He had killed one of their own, in the end. Revenge, justice, whatever. If Colt was one of them, he'd want to do something. He still wanted to do something. His hands itched with thrilling paranoia, causing him to check the windows periodically. There was always a chance.

_Someone could be out there._

That thought—the thought he might finally have been important enough for so much commotion—was illogical, but he couldn't help but feel _exhilarated_ nonetheless. It was almost impossible that they had discovered his identity through that one letter. He had been careful—writing with his left hand and waiting until darkness before leaving the note on Central Daily's doorstep. He'd even dug out his old thesaurus, to make himself seem more educated. It was ingenious, if he said so himself.

But it was just about time for his half-hourly check. And after that, he had another audition. With his confidence brimming, Colt was certain he would ace the part. It was finally _the day._

Shrugging on his old coat and grabbing his briefcase, Colt paused by the front window to survey the street outside. The curtain was tattered and transparent in some places. Once, he was sure, the fabric had a pattern. But the only patterns left were stains.

He twitched it away from the widow as carefully as possible. If he did have a peeping-tom, there was no point in alerting him.

And he did. Have one, that is. A peeping-tom.

He was a short boy, with blond hair. Colt couldn't distinguish any other features, but there wasn't any mistaking the boy's reason to be there. Not noticing his target in the window, that boy kept an unwavering eye on the front door.

Had they found him?

The boy sat at the end of the street, leaning against the side of the phone booth. Colt squinted, suddenly wishing he had taken his doctor's advice and bought glasses. Because what he was seeing just wasn't possible.

There was no way the Fullmetal alchemist could be lurking outside his house.

Maybe it had finally happened. All the death had gotten to him and rotted his mind. He was seeing things. Hallucinating. What was next? Would his older brother walk around the corner?

Fearing that might actually happen, Colt eased himself away from the window. His legs were rubber, bowing beneath his weight. Impossible. Impossible. It was all impossible.

People don't come back from the dead.

But neither do they become state alchemists at age twelve. It was all starting to click.

Colt had heard about Fullmetal's arm and leg—who hadn't?—the product of a childhood accident. That had never made much sense to him. What accident could do that to a child?

It wasn't an accident. Fullmetal had traded his arm and leg for his position, and possibly immortality, too.

Yes... Some demon had taken Fullmetal's limbs, and gifted him immortality and inhuman abilities as compensation. Colt had never believed in the supernatural, but he was starting to change his mind.

Was he angry? Or maybe he was there to make sure his secret stayed safe? If Colt was in Fullmetal's position, that was exactly what he'd do. It was a shameful secret.

And one that Colt could use.

Surprise was his greatest weapon.

"What're you thinking about?"

Colt stumbled back from the window, giving his guest a nervous glance. "N-nothing really… Just…"

The monster raised an eyebrow in bored anticipation. "Just what?"

"It was…" He licked his lips. There was no telling how his news would be received. "It was _Fullmetal_ that we killed on Friday, wasn't it?"

A flash of rage passed over the other's face so quickly that Colt almost missed it. But he _did_ catch it, and his legs went weak in sympathy.

"I told you not to mention that," the creature warned, his voice a low hiss. "As far as you know—as far as _anyone_ knows—we had nothing to do with that."

"I-I know, but…" Colt hesitated, perhaps waiting to be interrupted before he could finish. "I can… I can see him outside."

His guest stalked over to the window and impatiently pushed Colt aside. When he caught sight of the boy, he grinned. There was no happiness in the action. "I get it," he murmured, then turned to Colt with a sadistic gleam in his oddly-coloured eyes. "Let's have some fun, hm?"

**Bye bye!**


	4. The Second Saturday

_**Three Wise Monkeys**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**I'm so exhausted '-.- had the busiest day—which explains why this is about five hours late. And this is the first time I've been on the internet for almost a week, barring homework. So... _so_ much homework. Sorry about the delay. Please stick with the story—I promise it improves! I really like the last half, personally.**

**WARNINGS: Character death, blood, language. More will be added as necessary.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.**

**_CHAPTER FOUR • The Second Saturday_**

It was disheartening when every day began with, _'maybe I'll do something today_'. It was Saturday, and Ed had had this thought every morning since Thursday. While that was only three days, they were three days of fearful waiting, forever worried that Colt might spot him. There was nowhere to hide on Seaview Road, and he only thought to wear a disguise on Friday. Friday was spent constantly looking over his shoulder, anxious that Colt had seen him the previous day.

So while he was still in high alert, Edward was slightly more relaxed.

Colt hadn't woken up yet. It was early morning—much earlier than Ed had any business being awake for—but Ed found the dormitories suddenly suffocating. The grout in between his bathroom tiles were still discoloured, no matter how many times he scrubbed them. Blood is just like bad memories. Neither will disappear easily.

The sun was barely peeking over the horizon and Ed was bored. He played with his black hair, transformed part of the footpath into tiny, humanoid shapes, and still the sky remained dark. It was frustrating.

He had change in his pockets, and a phone behind him. Before even half of the sun made an appearance, Ed was turning the dial in a familiar pattern.

As expected, Al was the one to pick up.

"Hello?" he said quietly.

Ed smiled. He really had wanted to hear his brother's voice. "Hey, Al."

"Brother?" Al confirmed, then his tone became annoyed. "Why're you calling now? You could've woken Granny! Or Winry!"

Chuckling, Ed leant against the side of the phone box. "I had nothing else to do."

There was a long, suspicious silence on the other end. Then, "Why're you awake so early?"

"I'm still doing detective work."

"Oh, so you've found some evidence?"

"Eh..." Ed rubbed the back of his head. "Not quite. I'm getting there."

"What's taking so long? Should I come back?"

Ed hesitated. Logic and emotion battled, just as they had the last time Al asked that. They reluctantly came up with the same answer. "I'll be fine. You stay with Granny and Winry."

"How long do I have to stay here, brother?" Al whined.

Ed laughed. He knew what Al meant, but it still sounded incredibly impatient. Maybe he and Al were more alike than he'd thought. "You'll be bored here, Al. Mustang's got me staking out some guy's house—" a total lie, but Al couldn't know that "—until we find something out. There's no research or anything—this is the worst!"

"Okay, brother," Al said with a bit of mirth in his tinny voice. "But I'm coming back in a week, alright?"

"Great!" Maybe a week would be enough time to scrub the bathroom again. "You can help me beat some sense into Mustang."

Al giggled quietly, and Ed had to remind himself that it was early morning in Risembool, too. "Good luck with that, brother."

Someone knocked on the outside of the phone booth and Ed waved a dismissive hand at them. "Thanks. I'll see you—"

The knocking grew louder, the glass starting to rattle. Ed growled and let out a loud, exaggerated sigh. "Hang on, Al. There's some asshole wanting the phone."

Ignoring Al's reprimand of "Brother, don't call people that", Ed turned to the only other idiot awake at that godforsaken hour.

The phone almost slipped from his grip when he looked up into that face. "You—" he began, but the door was quickly opened and a checked handkerchief shoved into his face.

Ed stumbled back, hitting the phone monitor and letting the hand piece fall to the ground with a _crack_! The rag was still smothering him; some parts snuck into his mouth, tasting like chemicals. The world was going hazy, all his strength fading. Al's voice was frantic, and he wanted to comfort him, but Ed couldn't think. He couldn't _think_, he couldn't _breathe_, he couldn't _see_.

Everything was black.

**XxX**

Waking up hurt nearly as much falling 'asleep' had. Ed could feel rope tight against his right ankle and left wrist—and he had no idea where his automail went. The empty ports ached.

The room was eerily normal. A single bed had been propped up against the wall to his left, opposite the door. Its grotty mattress matched the peeling wallpaper, a fading floral pattern. By turning his head, Ed could see a lamp—minus the shade—on a chipped antique bedside table.

He seemed to be lying on a desk of some sorts, with his bare foot—

_Where the hell were his shoes?_

—hanging off the edge. It creaked when he moved, but gave a sense of strength beyond its appearance. The small table was in the very centre of the room; the only oddity in a room of averages.

But there was another peculiarity Ed had yet to add to his list. He couldn't open his mouth. At all. There was something constricting him, wrapped around the back of his head and locking his jaw in place.

Ed was determined not to panic, but that determination was running out fast.

That bastard had done it again. And how? How had Colt managed to one-up the People's Alchemist twice? Not once, but _two separate times_? Ed tackled with the idea that maybe Colt was smarter, but it was hard to tell for sure when he'd only seen the man for such a limited time.

He probably wouldn't have to wait long to find out. Already, he could hear footsteps echoing down the corridor. Maybe if he pretended to be asleep, Colt would leave. But maybe, he would kill him instead. Could he take that risk?

In the time it took Edward to analyse his options, they had been lost to him. The doorknob rattled as it unlocked, then Colt stepped in.

He was wearing casuals—dark pants and a ratty shirt—beneath a long, plastic-covered apron. Ed's eyes went wide and he instinctively shrunk back as far as he could. He had seen Barry the Chopper's soul transmuted into armour, but the glee in Colt's eyes made him believe that it had moved again.

It just wasn't _fair_. Not even sixteen, Edward had been held in similar positions by two crazed killers. At least.

Colt gave him a quick smile and Ed tried to ignore how that turned his insides into something representing overcooked spaghetti. He didn't know what Colt would do to him if he threw up.

Lacking a chair, Colt stood by the desk and examined Ed from above. Ed had an excellent view up his kidnapper's nose, but was unable to tear his gaze away from Colt's dark eyes.

"You're marvellous, you know that?"

The admiring words caused Ed's breath to quicken, whistling in and out of his nose and from forcibly clenched teeth.

"I killed you, didn't I?" Colt continued. "Yet here you are. There's not even a scratch on you." He leant in close. So close that Ed could smell stale cigarettes. "Isn't that... marvellous?"

Ed was getting dizzy, Colt's face wavering in front of him. But his words still cut through the fog in Ed's mind. It was like... falling asleep and hearing a loud noise outside. Alarming, but not so much that it drags you out of dreamland.

"But that doesn't really matter, now, does it? _I_ don't think so."

The pop of opening locks woke Ed. His chest was heaving, convulsing for breath, but Colt paid this no mind and simply—gently—pressed him back to the table.

"Shh…" he comforted, only raising Ed's hysteria. He had passed the panic he wanted to avoid, and entered something nameless. "It's okay, Fullmetal. You can't die, can you? And even if w—_I_ got something wrong... Well," Ed saw him shrugged through blackened vision, "then you were useless to me from the start.

"But," Colt paused, considering, "maybe it would be better if you could speak. Would you like that?"

Ed didn't think he would be able to nod, so he conveyed all his feeling into his watering eyes.

_Please, take this off._

Colt smiled once again and reached down to untie the bond around Ed's head. As soon as the smallest amount of air reached his blue-tinged lips, Ed gasped for more. He felt like he'd been underwater for weeks.

Colt waited patiently while Ed panted and coughed, spit flying down his chin in his need for air. His heart was pounding.

All the care he'd taken—scoping out the place, playing it safe—had lead to his capture. Perhaps it would have been better to rush in, metaphorical guns blazing. That approach certainly suited him better.

After what seemed like a second and an age, Ed was finally calm enough to lie quietly. His face was cold, covered by a thin sheen of sweat.

He met Colt's gaze unwaveringly, trying to act braver than he was. He almost passed out.

When several moments passed by in silence, Ed raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

He was strapped to a table in a spare bedroom, missing half his limbs, but Ed would be damned if he appeared meek and frightened to his kidnapper.

Colt, thankfully, gave a small laugh. "Well what? I've already told you everything, have I not?"

"The hell you have," Ed spat back. He was carefully monitoring Colt's expression, painfully aware of his position. "What am I even doing here?"

Another smile stretched up his face. "You tell me. You were watching me, weren't you?"

Ed didn't say anything. "Answer my question first."

Colt straightened up and propped his chin up with his hand. "I need practice. I'm guessing my pieces aren't good enough if only you are sent to capture me."

Edward glared at him, struggling to understand the answer. It was like a riddle—understand one part, and the rest falls into place.

"What do you mean..." he started slowly, unsure, "'practice?'"

Colt shook his head and pursed his lips. "You've used up your free question. If I'm to answer any more, I'll need compensation. As the person in power, I can do that."

"What the hell?" Ed exploded, lurching up. The rope chafed against his wrist, pulling him down again. "Answer my questions, damn you! If you're gonna keep me here, I need to know why!"

"No, not really." Colt just shrugged at Ed's perplexed expression. "If I'm honest, you don't have a choice in what I'll do, but I'll give you one anyway. How does that sound?"

"Fuck you."

"So, first choice." Colt raised the bandages that had once surrounded Ed's head. "This thing—on or off?"

Oh, how Ed wished he had the ability to kill with looks alone. "_Off_," he growled.

"Very good." The bind was placed over the bedside table. "I assume that means you'll behave?"

Ed stared up at him with a twisted type of curiosity. "Be... Behave?"

"Mm." Colt nodded. "I have neighbours, understand. We wouldn't want them to hear anything, right?"

His throat suddenly dry, Ed licked his lips before speaking. "Why's that necessary?"

"Why's that necessary, sir."

_"No way._"

Colt disappeared from Ed's sight, and when he returned, he was holding a briefcase. Ed's pulse quickened immediately. He recognised that briefcase. It was at the bar.

"Then I guess you'll find out what I mean the hard way."

Ed's fingers started to shake, no matter how hard he clenched his fist.

"Won't you?"

**XxX**

The bind was back—somehow even tighter than before. Ed hadn't been able to avoid it. After close to twenty minutes of that knife digging in and out of his flesh, Ed couldn't contain the scream that bubbled up. It was either that or go insane. At the time, screaming seemed the lesser of two evils.

But Colt's _'practice'_ had continued for another hour regardless. The only difference being that Ed then couldn't breathe. It was just the first day, and Ed was really considering insanity as a new career path.

He could go to a nice, padded room, be strapped into a straitjacket, and have people watch his every move. Just the thought of giving in that easily made him laugh. Inaudibly, of course. The most he could manage was a muffled panting.

_He hated it._

His chest, arm, and leg were sticky with blood, as was the table. Whenever he tried to shift his weight, it would make a horrible noise. For that reason, Ed hadn't moved a muscle in the past three hours. He was instead intently scrutinising the room, searching for a way out. Unless he found a way to perform alchemy and escape the rope around his wrist and ankle, it was hopeless.

There was a knock, and Colt entered straight after. He was clean of blood, wearing new clothes, and dragging a kitchen chair behind him. Ed pointedly turned away, scowling at a bricked-up window.

The chair clattered against wooden floorboards as Colt sat down then drew it forward with a scrape. He seized Ed's blond locks and pulled until defiant gold met gloating brown.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" he said with a kind smile. Ed glared at him, unable to answer. _Especially_ not to say what he really thought. Colt threw his hands up, releasing Ed. "Don't look at me like that! You're not hurt, are you? Not even a scratch." He leant in, eyes glowing. "How'd you do that? I mean, I have my own theories, but it would be good to hear it from the source. If I take the bond off, will you tell me?"

'_Fuck no'_, Ed wanted to say. He settled for angry silence.

"Well it's a bit after seven in the evening, and none of your friends have come knocking. Does that mean I'm safe?" His kind smile morphed into something ugly. Something Ed saw all too often in his line of work. "Does that mean no one's coming for you?"

Ed rolled his eyes. Why would Colt ask so many questions? Didn't he see the way Ed's teeth wanted to grind together?

But Colt's questions were really worrying—mainly because he was right on topic. Ed had done the research in secret. Not even Mustang knew what he was doing. They wouldn't find him. He'd have to find a way out himself.

Somehow.

And... Seven in the evening... He hadn't eaten all day! That wasn't healthy—he was a growing boy! He needed _food_! Nutrients! Protein!

Unable to articulate this, Ed's stomach let out a miserable growl.

Colt was silent for a few seconds before he let out a bark of laughter. It was so loud, Ed felt tiny flecks of spit land on his bare arm. Colt had cut away the sleeve for _'better access_'.

"Are you hungry, _boy-who-never-dies_?" he said between laughs.

Ed didn't have to answer. It seemed his stomach was doing all the talking.

Colt pretended to wipe tears away before talking. "Unfortunately, I can barely afford food for myself. It's the life of a future actor, I fear."

_'Then let me go_', Ed tried. It came out as a series of grunts.

"But this'll be interesting," Colt continued as if Ed hadn't made a sound. "I wonder what'll happen to you? Will you just wither away, or will you be resurrected at full health again?"

Ed wanted him to leave. He wanted to be left alone almost as much as he wanted to escape. One day without food? _Bad_. More than one? _That was worse._

Colt hummed thoughtfully and leant back. "Well," he said, slapping his knees. "I just wanted to say goodnight. Be good, now."

Ed's lips pulled into a snarl as Colt patted his shoulder and left. The light left with him; he pulled the cord on the way out the door, leaving Ed in darkness.

Edward sighed heavily. His warm breath heated the bandages around his mouth for several seconds. At least that was warm. The blood he was lying in had cooled after a couple of hours, and the tatters of his clothing did nothing to preserve his body temperature. Ed didn't know if it was the cold or shock that made him shake so much.

_The cold_, he told himself angrily. _A little pain doesn't worry me_.

That thought alone transformed his shakes to shudders.

**XxX**

Alphonse caught the first train back to Central. It left in the middle of the day, leaving him jumpy for most of the morning.

Winry was worried. She wanted him to tell her what was going on, and when that didn't work, she wanted to call Ed. When no one in Central headquarters had see him, neither Al nor Winry were surprised. Thankfully, for different reasons. Al knew that both he and Ed hated it when Winry cried, but Ed was particularly adamant that it would never happen again. Not tears of sorrow, in any case.

Even on the train, Alphonse couldn't keep still. The carriage was fairly empty, and the three other passengers grew used to his constant clanking and anxious shuffling. One of them—a young girl—suggested he use the bathroom, but Al politely declined. As if that would help.

He really wanted his brother.

The train ride was excruciatingly slow. Al would have dozed, if that were possible, but instead he stared out the window for hours on end. Hours after hours of constant fidgeting.

By the time Central appeared on the horizon, Al was ready to jump out the window and sprint there. Surely, that would be faster than waiting for the train to reach it itself. Logic said _'no'_, yet that didn't make his impatience lessen by even half a degree.

Mustang was expecting him, but none of his men were waiting at the station when Al arrived. They were off looking for Ed, after Al's hasty explanation of their phone call. Mustang had promised that no phone box would be left unchecked before the end of the weekend.

Al doubted that. Almost every street had its own, so to check them all would take weeks. There was another, easier way, and he was determined to find it.

Bursting into Mustang's office, the colonel looked up with a tired smirk.

"You've learnt that from Fullmetal, have you?" he said wryly, nodding towards the battered doors. His desk was piled high with paperwork, but Riza's gun was hidden. Scattered across its surface were much more important sheets of paper: reports of Ed's previous and current tasks, accounts from all of the soldiers in the dormitories, and hypotheses as to his whereabouts. Al took them all in, immediately choosing the witness reports to study first.

He took them to the couch and collapsed into it with a _clank_! They were all very vague, but ordinary.

_'I saw him at dinner last night.'_

_'He was in the corridors yesterday morning, but I didn't see him after that.'_

_'I think I heard him yelling during dinner."_

They were similar, and ultimately useless. Only one caught his eye. Lieutenant Rupert Chaise had written:

_'I saw him leaving early this morning, around the time I left for my shift."_

Al brought it over to the colonel and placed it over Ed's mission reports.

"Did you see this?" he asked.

Mustang nodded and rubbed his eyes in exhaustion. "Of course I did. It's a part of my job."

"But did you find out what time this was?" Al was getting louder, more excited. It was small, but it was a clue.

"Half past four, roughly." Roy gave a large yawn and Al glanced at him guiltily. _He_ may not have been tired, but it was well past midnight. Both Roy and Riza looked dead on their feet.

"Do you wanna sleep, colonel?" Al prompted softly. "I can look through all this and have it ready for you tomorrow."

"_That_," Roy stood immediately, "would be great."

Without hesitation, he wobbled over to the couch and collapsed, face-first. The sound of his snores filled the office soon after.

Al jumped as Riza sighed, then gave him a sad, tired smile. "We'll find him, Alphonse," she said in reply to his unspoken question. "Edward's strong enough to wait for us."

The suit of armour nodded. "I know. Thanks, Lieutenant. Hopefully it won't... be too long."

Riza didn't reply. She walked over to the doors, placed her hand over the wood, and paused. Without looking back at him, she said quietly, "Hopefully it won't be too late."

Alphonse didn't know if she meant for him to hear, but her honesty made the following silence heavy with words.

**Please review :) and see you next week!**


	5. The Second Monday

_**Three Wise Monkeys**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**There were a few questions sent anonymously last chapter, but they're good so I thought I'd reply here:**

**To the first one—this is set in the Brotherhood/manga universe. I'm not sure exactly of _when_, but it's sometime before the Gluttony thing.**

**And the second—yes, Ed did tell Mustang he suspected Colt, but he also agreed not to actually _go near _Colt until he had proper evidence. This might make more sense at the end of this chapter.**

**Thanks for the questions! It's really awesome that you care enough to ask them :) And since I've forgotten this before—thank you to all the guest reviewers I can't PM! You guys are great :)**

**WARNINGS: Character death, blood, language. More will be added as necessary.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.**

_**CHAPTER FIVE • The Second Monday**_

Ed didn't see Colt again for quite some time. It could have been days, it could have been weeks. But overall, Ed didn't care. If he wasn't out of that stupid room, he didn't want to think about how much time he was missing. Was Al back yet? Was he looking for his older brother? Such questions were useless, but unavoidable.

His stomach had stopped growling, and started to eat itself instead. Ed could see himself losing weight, and it wasn't a pleasant sight. It seemed that Colt was sick of knives. He wanted to turn Ed's own body against him.

If so, it was working. Unlike wounds, no flashing red light came to alleviate his hunger.

_He was so hungry…_

Ed even considered eating himself. It would grow back instantly—he just had to get past the initial pain—but as soon as he felt teeth on his arm, that became impossible. It took all he had not to throw up.

He passed the time by counting. The first time, he made it to one million before falling asleep. The second was slightly more. But each time was less after that.

Ed was only at 10 311 when the door opened.

Colt immediately staggered backwards as the smell reached him. Ed glanced up with slight, tired amusement, before his gaze returned to the ceiling.

_10 312_

_10 313_

"What is that?" Colt had a cloth pressed to his nose and mouth, and was fiddling hurriedly with the tie to Ed's bond. Ed took a deep breath as soon as it was gone, then he smirked up at Colt.

"I needed the bathroom," he said with smug satisfaction. At first he thought he'd be embarrassed, but after seeing Colt's reaction, he didn't care at all.

Colt looked down at him in disgust. "It's only been a few days."

"Yeah?" Ed raised an eyebrow. He was having more fun by the minute. "What did you think would happen?"

Face turning red, Colt spluttered indignantly, unable to form words. "W-well... What're you gonna do now?"

Ed lifted his empty automail port in a shrug.

Colt groaned and rubbed the side of his face with his free hand. The other still hadn't shifted from over his mouth. "Then there's nothing else for it."

The next thing he knew, Ed's wrist was free. His ankle followed soon after, but he was too shocked to do anything but blink stupidly.

"What's... happening?" he asked as Colt reluctantly dropped the cloth from his face. Looking as if he would much rather be flying headfirst off a cliff in nothing but his underwear, he pulled Ed's leg off the table with a wet ripping sound. "H-hey!" Ed cried. "That hurts!"

"Well too bad," Colt snapped back. "You did this."

"No," Ed argued, his voice getting louder and louder. And just like that, it wasn't fun anymore. "You did this! You left me in here! What are you doing?"

Colt ignored his outraged yells and lifted him straight off the bed. Ed's fury increased at the demeaning position—and his lack of ability to do anything about it—until Colt placed a heavy hand over his mouth. His complaints were halted mid-sentence.

"I'm not having you stink up the place," Colt explained. He appeared to be having trouble both carrying Ed and coping with the smell. "You need a bath."

"I need food, too," Ed muttered hatefully when he was free to talk. "Can I have that as well?"

Colt didn't reply. They staggered out into the hallway, and Ed drank it in. He hadn't seen anything but his own blood-coated room for too long. Even that simple, bare corridor with nothing but a bald carpet was much more interesting than the ceiling.

The bathroom was tiny, with barely more than a sink and taps, bath, and toilet. A framed sketch of two children at the beach hung above the spotty mirror.

While Ed was examining the salmon-coloured tiles, Colt dumped him unceremoniously into the metal tub. It made a hollow clang against his automail. Ed hardly had enough time to adjust to the new position—his muscles were sore—before cold water hit the top of his head. He gasped and tried to wiggle away, but Colt pushed him back.

"Wait!" Ed protested. His only foot slipped on the slick surface of the bath and he fell down. Thankfully, the water wasn't too high yet. "At least make it warm, dammit! I'll get sick!"

"Nothing that'll kill you."

Ed pulled himself up to glare over the edge, but Colt was already out the door.

"Do a good job!" he called from the hall, and Ed swore back at him.

The freezing water was two inches deep, soaking the rags of Ed's clothes. It was red, just as it had been _that night._ With a quiet curse, he slowly started to pull himself backwards with his one hand. At the other end of the bath, Ed waited a while until he had balance, then carefully twisted to grasp the hot water tap. His celebration was cut short, however, when he skidded back again, landing with his face in the water. The sudden movement made him pull on the faucet, and water began to rocket out, white and steaming.

Ed tried to move back, letting out a strangled scream as the scalding water struck his hand and spread. It mixed with the few inches of cold and rapidly overpower it, until Ed felt as if he were sitting in a pot of soup. Tomato, judging by the colour.

Small flickers of crimson danced across his skin as Ed used his foot to push himself towards the taps again. The water was a foot deep, lapping at his chin and steadily working its way into his mouth. It was with great relief that Ed felt the tap beneath his fingers. The warm metal reminded him of Alphonse in the summer—though Al was much more cooperative than the tap. His dripping fingers couldn't find purchase on the rusting faucet. He toppled to the floor of the tub more times than he cared to remember. But finally, with a strong push of his leg, Ed was catapulted closer, and the water cooled again.

He landed in the other end of the bath with a loud splash, grimy soup rushing after him and spilling over the edge. Colt would have a fun time washing that.

Ed grunted and turned himself around, so he could see the ceiling, ringed with steam and mould. He doubted he was getting very clean by just sitting in his own mess, but it couldn't hurt.

And it would piss Colt off.

Ed sighed, blowing a few bubbles in the tepid water. It was the first bath he'd had in days, and he couldn't say that he was enjoying it. It was rather disgusting, actually. It stank. And he was tired. And hungry.

Mostly hungry.

He settled further into the water, holding his breath. Maybe, if he held it long enough, he would drown. Perhaps it would be the last time. Final.

Somehow, he doubted that. Nothing wanted to go his way.

In the last... however long it was, Ed had died in a pub bathroom, been unable to prove his killer's guilt, and consequently spent the next few days searching for some way to do so. Which led to him being caught. Great. _Perfect_.

Would anything _ever_ go right?

Apparently not, as that was the moment Colt chose to re-enter. Ed wondered what he was seeing, and glared back challengingly. He was probably a pathetic sight, but there was no way he would acknowledge that. He was the Fullmetal alchemist—a hero—not some child lying in a bath of his own blood.

In his arms, Colt held an old, fraying towel. He threw it at Ed. "Use that."

Ed blinked at him dumbly. "How?"

"Have you never used a towel before?" Colt asked in angry disbelief. Ed was really enjoying the sheer amount of irritation he was causing his captor. "You dry yourself with it."

"Yeah, yeah," Ed nodded dismissively. "That's not the problem."

Just a bit more, and Colt would probably start to growl. "Then what is?"

"You took my arm and leg. I can't get out by myself." Smirking, Ed held up his arms up in the universal 'carry me' gesture. Colt had ignored him for at least two days—Ed was going to inconvenience him as much as possible. Acting the weak victim could only benefit him in the long run, and he really did need help getting out of the bath. The cold tap was still leaking, and the water was steadily rising above his chin, even when he stretched as high as he could.

Colt was suspicious—and he right to be so—but Ed kept his eyes wide and innocent. "_Fine_," Colt grumbled after a few moments' thinking. "You're not... faking, are you?"

Ed pointed exaggeratedly at the absence beyond his thigh. Quickly, lest his head went underwater, he grabbed the edge of the tub for stability. Once he was sure he wouldn't slip, he turned back to Colt. "Does it look like I'm faking?" Neither of them moved. "Look, it's either give me back my limbs, or—"

"Alright, I get it." Colt huffed. His face was red—with anger or embarrassment, Edward couldn't tell for sure. Maybe it was a mixture of both. "But you'll owe me."

Ed hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He didn't plan on 'owing' the man anything. As soon as he got free, Colt was going to die. A simple beating wasn't enough—Ed needed Colt's head on a stake.

**XxX**

"At least give me some proper clothes, _dammit_!" Ed shouted to Colt's retreating back. "What is this shit? Hey! Stop leaving! _Wait a second_, you bastard! _Listen_ to me!"

A door slammed somewhere down the hall, and Ed slumped in outraged defeat. He stared at the rag in front of him, anger melting into disbelief.

_Did he really expect Ed to wear that?_

It was hardly better than what he had on—ripped scraps of material that might have once resembled clothes. What lay before him claimed to be a pair of dark shorts, but they were so ridden with holes that Ed believed his current outfit would have provided more modesty.

But his current outfit was wet from the bath, and a bit stiff from dried blood. At least the shorts looked vaguely clean…

Nevertheless, he didn't want to put them on. Just the enormous task of plying off his clothes with one hand made him baulk.

So when Colt returned ten minutes later, he found the little alchemist exactly how he'd left him. Though Ed was weak from malnourishment and half his limbs were god-knows-where, his stubborn streak remained as strong as ever.

"I'm not putting that on," he said with a strength that was mirrored by his expression, if not anything else.

Colt folded his arms and leant against the doorway. "Put them on."

"No."

The man took a step forward, until his feet nudged the shorts. Ed fought against the instinct to move away, keeping his gaze steady instead.

"It's either this," Colt's knees cracked when he crouched down, "or I cut your own clothes. What's it to be?"

"Could I add a third option?" Ed tried, shuffling back against his will. "How 'bout you give me my automail back and I kick your ass right to the Gate's doorstep?"

Colt's brow crinkled in confusion. "The Gate?" he repeated unsurely, then he appeared to cast it aside. "I'd prefer the second option, if that's alright with you."

Ed couldn't bite back the sarcastic remark, "And why wouldn't it be? I love it when psychopaths cut off my clothes. Leave enough for decency, won't you?"

"Tsk," Colt hissed through his teeth, eyes narrowing in annoyance. "You were better when you couldn't talk."

"Nobody's perfect."

"You might be if I cut your tongue out."

Ed didn't know what to say to that.

They were in a standstill, neither sure of their next move. Ed was beginning to regret his earlier quip, but nothing he could do would take it back. He felt his cheeks lighting up as his own words hit him, and was forced to look away from Colt. Ed was really pissed.

"So..." he said in an effort to distract himself. "Was there a reason you decided to drop in on me today? I was pretty happy on my own. Well," there, he gave a strange sort of shrug, "as happy as someone tied to a table could be."

"Get changed and I'll tell you." Colt's eyes flickered over to the running tap, and he walked over to turn it off.

Ed's hand shot out, catching the cuff of his pants. "No," he repeated forcefully. "I'm staying like this."

Colt looked down at him for a while, then reached forward slowly. The water shut off, leaving them in silence.

And the silence lasted.

And lasted.

Until finally, it had to break.

"So... Could I get some food, maybe?" Ed asked. The starved pain in his midsection was uncomfortable, but he had grown accustomed to it. Nevertheless, he still didn't like it—how could he? It was probably stunting his growth. "Even a drink would be good. My mouth tastes like dirt."

"I'm afraid we're on a tight schedule today." The way Colt said that made Ed nervous—he was much too pleased. "I have a lot of questions, and you, Fullmetal, are going to provide the answers."

Ed didn't say anything. He merely watched Colt clasp his hands together in excitement—like a child at Christmas.

"Isn't this gonna be fun, Fullmetal?"

**XxX**

Lieutenant Rupert Chaise didn't have much more to say, apparently. Edward had found some companions in the military circle, but he'd also made some... _less-than-friendly _relationships.

Al could have only wished that Lieutenant Chaise didn't fall into the second category.

Unfortunately, nothing seemed to be going right, and when asked about the Fullmetal alchemist, Lieutenant Chaise gave an annoyed grunt.

"Yeah, I saw him outside his room. He was rude, too!" The lieutenant's grip on his mug of tea became worrying tight. "Didn't even say hello—and I'm sure he heard me!"

Al made a small sound of apology, shifting his huge weight in embarrassment. He was almost afraid to ask anything more, but Ed was his brother! Above all, Ed's safety came first.

"So, uh... Lieutenant, can you tell me what he was doing?" Al asked tentatively, wary of the other man's reaction.

"Ah, that's right." Lieutenant Chaise sighed and wiped a tired hand down his face. "He went missing a few days ago, didn't he?"

"Yeah. Saturday."

The lieutenant's face screwed up in sympathy. "I'm sorry."

"No, no," Al said, waving his hands. They were sitting in the colonel's office, with Mustang trying—and failing—to pretend he wasn't listening. "It's fine. We'll find him soon."

"Of course."

Al could see that the lieutenant didn't hold much hope. It was one of the times Al was glad he couldn't hold facial expressions. He took _'masking his emotions_' to a whole new level.

"Um... Lieutenant?" Al gently prompted when Chaise didn't say any more. "Do you remember what he was doing?"

"Oh, he was just... going out, I guess." He gave a helpless shrug. "As I said before, he didn't say anything."

Fighting the need to sigh in frustration, Al politely stood and gave Lieutenant Chaise a quick bow. "Thank you for your help."

The lieutenant also got to his feet and nodded sternly. "I hope you find him."

"Thanks," Al muttered as the man excused himself and left. As soon as the door closed, he fell back into the chair and began a quiet whine.

Mustang glanced up from his desk. "We're you really expecting anything from him? What's a soldier doing awake at that time?"

"What was _Brother_ doing awake at that time?"

"This, I assume."

Al looked up. The colonel held a file in one hand, wearing a pleased smirk. The mid-morning light cast his face in shadow and illuminated the papers in his gloved fingers.

"What is it?" Wariness coloured his words—after losing what he had thought to be their only lead, he couldn't stand a second disappointment.

"Come look," Roy offered, and Al did so with only a tiny amount of trepidation. "It's what he was working on. I might have found a hint."

Al gave a small gasp and his pace quickened. It was only him and the colonel in the office that day, so the only sound as he read through the first page was Roy's steady breathing.

Al's large hands tightened on the paper, until he had to be careful not to rip them. "Why..." he started, voice low and slightly unstable. "Why is Edward doing... this?"

Roy's pleased expression plummeted to a frown. "He didn't tell you what he was doing?"

"He did." Alphonse had to put the file down. He didn't like what the images were doing to his head. "But I only read the papers. They... didn't have this."

Autopsy reports, photos, and suspect profiles formed a stack of paper almost an inch thick. There were seven victims, as the news had reported, but Al had never imagined there would be so much blood.

And his brother was chasing _that_.

Mustang seemed to have been waiting for him to come to that realisation. When Al's helmet shot upwards, he gave a stony smile.

"I haven't seen him since the Monday before last," he said. "Ed was yelling something about finding evidence."

"So," Al mused. If he had a face, it would have been pulled into a deep frown. "Best case, he's just lying low to avoid the killer."

"Worst case," Mustang continued the thought, "he wasn't fast enough."

Both lapsed once again into a grim silence. Al couldn't tell what Roy was thinking—he was too busy remembering how Ed had sounded on the phone. It was obvious that he knew whoever entered the booth, but was that person friend or foe?

From the way everything seemed to be pointing, 'foe' was the more likely option.

Al was torn away from his thoughts by a loud groan and _thump_! Mustang had his elbows planted solidly on the desk, propping up his heavy head.

"I _told_ him," he said with a voice muffled from his hands. "I _told_ him to wait. We just needed some proof, and we could've gone in with... with backup or something. _Hell_," he released his grip, letting his arms flop limply onto the desk, "you'd think he'd have a bit of sense!"

"You're talking about my brother," Al might have smiled if he was able. A sad smile, but it would count. "When does he wait for permission?"

Roy grunted in irritated agreement. "He might be a genius, but that doesn't make him smart. Well," he straightened up and met Al's gaze with his own, "at least this gives us something to follow."

"How?"

"We've checked about half of the phone boxes in Central." Roy steepled his fingers. Wearing his usual smirk, he was almost normal. "I'm calling it off."

"What?" Al cried, his armour clanking in alarm. "Why?"

"Think about it, Alphonse. Fullmetal disappeared on Saturday, and it's now Tuesday. If there were any clues, they're gone now."

"So what? We don't have any..." Al trailed off, finally understanding Roy's change in demeanour. "You have an idea."

"Better yet," Mustang's eyes glinted with determination, "I think I know who took him.

"His name's Jeremy Colt."

**Please drop me a review if you liked it :) see you in a week (Next chapter's over 6 000 words long! I'm happy with that)**


	6. The Second Tuesday

_**Three Wise Monkeys**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**And late again. I had this chapter ready to post about an hour ago, but something happened on and I suddenly had to edit it again. For the third time. But, in better news, this is the longest chapter so far! Please review and let me know what you think. It really helps to hear your opinions :)**

**WARNINGS: Character death, blood, language, and torture in this chapter.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters**

_**CHAPTER SIX • The Second Saturday**_

There were many thoughts cascading through Ed's head, but one was loudest of all.

_'This is_ not _fun_!'

It wasn't really as if he had expected to be. Anything that Colt enjoyed didn't sound all that pleasant to Ed. Hobbies like painting, murder, bird-watching, and—more recently—torture.

Why couldn't he enjoy normal things? Like golf? Or soccer? Even alcoholism would be preferable.

Ed's thoughts were shattered as yet another knife entered from somewhere beneath his ribs. It was white hot, yet cold, and seemed to expand as Ed's muscles contracted around it. He wanted to scream, to move away, but to do either would only make his situation worse. Colt had promised food, and Ed wasn't going to lose it just to relieve some pain.

The knife twisted, up, and he gasped in agony, clenching his eyes and fist until blood seeped from his palm and tears rolled down his cheeks.

Deep inside his mind, a firework exploded and sparked ferociously, demanding to be noticed. Ed opened his mouth, a single syllable slipping from his lips.

"Eight."

Colt hummed and Ed felt him pull the knife out. With its absence, breathing became less of a chore, and Ed puffed and wheezed until it was comfortable once again. His arm and leg fell weakly, held to the table by just the rope.

Colt was talking, somewhere to Ed's left. He didn't have enough energy—or interest—to listen to Colt's explanation, but he heard it anyway.

"That only took about... six seconds, I think. Much faster than the other one, but it's harder, isn't it?"

Ed cracked his watering eyes open to glare at Colt, but he didn't even notice.

"It's not that good against people in a real situation... It's just too much trouble to get the right angle! Maybe with more practice," he said with a toothy grin.

Rolling his eyes, Ed tried his best to tune himself out of the world. His mouth was full of blood—blood he desperately wanted to spit into Colt's face. It wouldn't make much of difference. Everything was covered in Ed's blood. Even the ceiling had collected a few flecks. _'Grotesque'_ came to mind, along with _'sickening'_. Distancing words, vague words. They said nothing about the hurt, the need to scream, to yell, to writhe in agony even though the physical pain was long gone. They said nothing about the person behind the mess.

What was left of them.

Ed was determined to retain as much of himself as possible. Using those words allowed him to imagine he was reading a report. He could pretend it was all happening to someone else. That poor, unlucky bastard. He was glad it wasn't him.

_Glad it wasn't._..

"Hey! Don't fall asleep, now."

Ed shook his weary head. "Never. Wouldn't think of it."

Another knife entered his chest, just above his heart. Slowly, carefully, twisting anti-clockwise. Colt wanted him to feel it, and feel it he did. Utter agony.

It was harder to pretend when that blade was determined to prove him wrong. Reality hurt. Really badly.

Again, light sparked beneath his eyelids and Ed ground out a number from between gritted teeth.

"Nine."

Colt had promised ten. Ten and no more. If Ed could get through ten _'experiments'_ without making too much noise, he could eat. Otherwise...

Colt had also expressed an interest in how long it would take him to starve to death.

The tip of the knife kissed his side and Ed shuddered. Hopefully, that would be the last one.

But it barely pierced the skin, allowing only a single drop of crimson to spill before the wound closed over. Ed kept his eyes closed, knowing he would be able to tell when Colt chose a 'better' place.

And he did.

For a few moments, there was nothing. Perfect, blissful, beautiful numbness.

Then his eyes shot open, swivelling upwards. There was a silver glint at the top of his vision.

As a waterfall of blood flowed over his face, into his gaping mouth, Ed stared at the knife standing to attention in the middle of his forehead.

He couldn't help it.

He screamed.

**XxX**

The monster sat in its usual place. It rarely went away, and when it did, Colt daren't ask where.

Perhaps it was through lack of options that it had finally settled on the tattered couch, since it couldn't haven been from comfort. The springs screeched every time it lounged on it, and the thin pillow just about touched the ground, and yet the monster never complained.

It glanced up from an inspection of its nails as Colt walked into the kitchen. The pipes rattled and spewed out a rusted excuse for water, and the liquid that flowed down the drain was even more discoloured.

"Have fun?" The creature's voice travelled through the open door.

Colt wiped his hands on an old towel, leaving it with even more stains. "It's not about having fun." He started up the kettle. "I'm learning how to do things better on my own."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. One day I won't have to rely on you anymore."

"That's an interesting theory."

"It's true! With all this practice, I'm bound to make the front-page one day!"

"Hm?" The couch creaked as the creature swung its legs down to the floor. "Is that really all you want? Honestly, you humans have such low dreams. It's a wonder you don't trip on them."

"It may seem low to you, monster," Colt said. The kettle was beginning its high scream. "But at least it's something to work for."

It was silent for a while. Long enough for the tea to have been poured and drained.

"What'll you do once I become redundant?" it finally asked, a trace of laughter in its voice.

Colt came out with his cup in hand and dragged over the frail garden chair. "At that time… I will thank you for your services."

The creature cocked an eyebrow. "Is that all you'll do? I helped you get rid of your brother, your doctor, your aunt, and all those rich bastards… and you wanna _thank_ me?"

Unease set in immediately, crippling in its intensity. "I—I don't know what else you want."

It studied him until it seemed to find what it was looking for. By that time, all of the blood had drained from Colt's face and he was having trouble keeping his fingers from shaking. It wouldn't do well to show fear to such a being.

"You have a question for me," it leant back on the couch, "don't you?"

Colt's lips tightened as much as he dared—as much as he could without alerting the monster to his displeasure. He hated the way it spoke to him, but what could he do? "No. Nothing."

It cocked an eyebrow disbelievingly. "I don't like being lied to."

"It's nothing, re—" he stopped talking in a hurry. There was a knife at his throat.

"Well?" It hadn't moved from the lounge, but its arm was extended and much longer than it had a right to be.

Colt licked his lips. "It's about… uh, it's about how… this works." He waited for a reply, but none came. The blade didn't even budge. "Was it the injection?"

"The injection?"

"That made him, um, i-immortal."

The monster laughed. "You _really_ think that a _general practitioner_ would hold the key to immortality?" As its body shook with mirth, the knife tapped against Colt's chin. "No, _that_ particular trait is quite… _unique_ to Elric. He has his father to thank for that.

"But," it retracted the blade and lowered its arm, "We can talk about this later. I can hear something strange in your spare room."

Colt frowned. Even with the immediate danger gone, he couldn't rid himself of the ominous prickling under his skin. "Strange?"

"He's your _guest_," the monster said with a snort. "_You_ go see what he's up to."

"Ah, right." Colt nodded hurriedly and placed his full mug of tea on the floor. "I'll think about what… about what you said."

**XxX**

Colt had undone the ropes, at least, before leaving Ed alone. _Almost_ alone. His thoughts were terrible company.

The last death had really shaken him. No warning, no preparation, just _bam_! There's a knife in your head.

Worst of all, he had been _so close_ to food. He could practically smell it, taste it, _feel it_ filling up the hollow space he called 'stomach'. The wounds healed in an instant, but his hunger was a constant, unwelcome companion. He didn't know how long it had been since Colt left. A minute? Two hours? Ed wouldn't have been surprised with either. The table was hard beneath his back, and while he barely had the energy, he forced himself to move.

His foot slipped in the slick blood as he scrabbled to find purchase. Giving up, Ed simply rolled across the edge and crumpled to the floor. Missing an arm and a leg, he felt like a child's discarded and forgotten toy.

His blurred gaze scanned around the room. He'd never seen it like that before. So many materials to use—iron, wood—and yet none could be accessed without his other arm. They were simply lumps of unused clay, ready for a skilled craftsman to spin them into vases and bowls. Maybe, he could...

_Wait_.

If Ed wasn't already overly aware of the blood on his face, he would have hit himself. He'd been using his arms so often that he'd damn near forgotten that there was another method for him to use.

_Transmutation circles._

There was plenty of blood to draw with, and plenty of things he could make. Weapons, tunnels... hell—he could probably make explosives, if he really wanted to.

Oh, and to see Colt's face as his precious test subject waved goodbye—that would be marvellous. Ed grinned. Since he was free from that rope, he could do anything. Except walk. Or run.

So that took weapons out of the question. What was the point of a sword if you couldn't stand to wield it? That was about as useful as giving a blind person binoculars. Maybe a cannon would work, but there was the large risk that it wouldn't hit its target.

His best bet was to leave quickly and quietly. While he wouldn't see Colt's reaction, he _could_ escape and call help. If he was fast enough, Ed might be able to catch a glimpse of Colt's expression as he was dragged into the back of a military vehicle. He would have to settle for that.

Decision made, Edward started to crawl across the floor, searching for a relatively clean surface on which to draw. The empty spaces where his limbs should have been made him horribly overbalanced, to the point where he could barely avoid toppling over each time he inched forward.

It was exhausting.

He was almost at the door—almost able to touch it—when his hand slid out from beneath him. His chin hit the floorboards first, slamming his tongue between his teeth, and even more blood filled his mouth. The red light crackled inside his mouth, like a New Year's sparkler gone haywire.

Pushing himself onto his back, Ed coughed until his eyes were weeping and his throat was raw. But, metallic and slimy, the blood wouldn't leave the sides of his teeth nor tongue. He groaned. It would all be so much easier if he had something to _eat_.

But at least his small fumble had brought him to a clearer area. The floorboards only held a few flecks, which Ed cleared away with the side of his arm before dipping his fingers into a semi-dried puddle.

His head shot around as footsteps echoed down the hallway, just about sending him to the floor again. Colt was coming back.

_Hurry!_

His hand moved as if independent, sketching out the transmutation circle for a trapdoor. The floorboards were obviously made of some type of wood, but if there was something else underneath, he didn't want to risk the backlash.

The steps were quickening—along with Ed's frantic breaths—until they were right outside the door. The circle was nowhere near complete.

_Why was he coming back so soon?!_

_He didn't have enough time!_

The door opened quickly, catching the side of Ed's face and throwing him across the half-finished circle. Colt towered over him, stained, scarlet rag in his grasp. His initial look of worry melted into rage as he recognised the design beneath Ed's defeated form.

Colt reached down and pulled Ed up by the neck. It was a formidable and unexpected show of strength that Ed had only witness twice before. The first: in the pub bathroom; and the second was the phone box. It was that strength—and Colt's ability to hide it—that was partly to blame for Ed's current predicament. The remainder of the blame could only be placed on himself.

Colt's grip was surprisingly tight, forcing Ed to gasp for breath. "Were you trying to get away?" he asked in a low growl. "Didn't you wanna say goodbye first?"

Unfortunately, Ed had enough air left for one quick retort. "Fuck no."

And the next thing he knew, he was flying. Not with wings or anything—and not gracefully in the least. It might have been more accurate to say he tumbled across the room, head over tail, until he met the table with a loud _crack_!

For the second time in a few minutes, his head was pouring blood.

"Don't move," Colt ordered before he stalked out of the door, letting it slam forcefully behind him. Ed didn't think the warning was necessary—he couldn't move if he tried.

Colt returned not a minute later. Ed was still dazed, unable to focus on one thing for very long. His eyes wandered from the ceiling, to Colt's bare feet, to the mattress on the other wall, and then back to the shiny object in Colt's hand. That captured his attention for a bit longer. Long enough for him to recognize the short, stumpy wedge of metal.

An axe.

"What... for... is that?" Ed managed to slur. A trickle of crimson ran down his chin; sparks of the same colour flickered weakly all around his body.

"I'm getting rid of that bloody hand!" Colt raged, face scarlet. A large grin stretched from ear to ear. "You're not getting out of here! Not _now_, not _ever_! Understand?"

Ed blinked slowly and his brows scrunched into a frown. Everything ached. Everything was too _confusing_. "My... hand? It's covered in… blood?"

"It's coming off! Off! Right now!" Colt grabbed Ed's arm just beneath the elbow and lifted him up like a parent lifts a sulking child. Ed squirmed uncomfortably. Why was everything so blurry? He could barely see. And that loud noise... Was someone yelling at him?

There was a bright flash somewhere above his head, and then the world returned. His senses switched on, working on overdrive as if to atone for their previous break. But there was a single sensation that overcame all others.

Pain.

No—_agony_.

And, instantly, Ed was back in the basement—eleven years of age and pleading for his brother's life to be spared. His leg was gone, Alphonse was gone, and then only other life form was that... that _shaking, shuddering_ mess on the ground and he was _scared_ and he couldn't stop shaking but he had to be _brave_ because Al couldn't see his older brother so _petrified_ and that didn't matter because Alphonse was _gone_ and Ed was _alone_ and—

He was _so scared_.

A bloodcurdling scream tore its way up his throat. Words—were they words? They might have been words—blubbered from his lips in the form of large, shuddering sobs.

Everything was white. The pain inside his head, the noise that surrounded him, the heat in his left wrist, the light behind his eyelids. Was he there again—the Gate? Why? Did he do another human transmutation? Or was he finally dead?

_Oh God, oh God—_

What did he do to his little brother?

Was he screaming? It felt like it, but it was impossible to know for sure. Just like that time, when he was young and foolish. Nothing had changed in four years—only the length of his hair and the size of his confidence.

And then his head was being yanked upwards, and his eyes roughly opened with a sticky, bloody palm on his forehead. His hand was gone—both of them.

_Where did they go?!_

But as he watched, a flower bloomed in place of his left wrist. A porcelain-white flower nurtured by crimson water and pain-filled tears. A flower whose petals grew and danced and writhed as if they were alive and celebrating that simple, joyful fact.

"You see this?" A gleeful voice bellowed beside his ear. Was it the Gate? Had it come to see him off before he entered its confines forever? "You did this! You're a _freak_! A useful _freak_! Nothing more than that!"

"Freak..." Ed watched, entranced, as muscle and sinew grew over the base of the flower, holding it together as it worked towards its final shape. "I'm... not normal..."

The Gate spluttered, its many voices converging into one. Strange—Ed never thought it would choose to do that. "You think this is normal?"

The fuzzy, humanoid form reached forward and shook Ed's regenerated hand so it flopped from side to side. Ed squinted up at the Gate, noticing that its perpetual smile was the wrong way up.

"But..." he said slowly. "I know it's not. But I'm... useful?"

The Gate's snarl relaxed slightly. "You're useful. Nothing more."

"But I don' wanna... be used." Ed turned his pleading gaze to where he guessed to be the Gate's eyes. A few tears fell unchecked—but he was a big boy! He couldn't cry! Al needed him to stay strong! "I... Give him back."

The Gate seemed taken aback by Ed's sudden demand. "What?"

"Give him back," Ed repeated. He balled his new hand into a fist and wobbled to his one leg. "He's my little brother!" Ed's voice took on a shrill, hysteric tone. "_Give him back to me!"_

And as soon as the words departed his lips, Ed's knee gave out. He collapsed, undignified, to the ground and lay there, silent sobs racking his weaker frame. The tears cleared his vision, until he could see that he wasn't trembling before alchemy's god, but a man. A man with bare feet, skinny ankles, and sanguine pants.

_His new God._

And his new God already had a command for him.

"Stop that." His voice was unreadable. "It's pathetic."

Ed nodded, but couldn't stop it. Then he was being pulled up again, keeping his gaze fixed firmly to the floor. He didn't want to see the axe as it swung, higher and higher, until he thought for sure it would never come back down. But it did. With a sickening crunch and dull thud, it did.

"We need to make sure that this doesn't happen again," Colt explained smoothly. Ed could barely hear it through the screaming in his mind—too focused was he on making sure he remained silent. The neighbours might hear.

There was a strong pressure on the stump of his wrist, a strong, rough, scratching pressure. Ed dragged his eyes over to see what was happening, taking in the white bandages rapidly turning red. The grotesque, beautiful flower distorted its wrapping, scratching and tearing but never _quite_ breaking through. Surrounded by scarlet lightning, it writhed.

With a _bang_! that resounded deep in Ed's mind, ringing in his ears for what promised to be hours, the stump went still and quiet.

Dazed, Edward almost didn't notice Colt's departure. He vanished quickly and angrily, slamming the door behind him. It didn't matter—Ed was lost in his own head, staring at his hand as it disintegrated into a powdery ash and then less. Soon, it was gone.

Five minutes. That was what he decided, stumbling through his thoughts and recent memories in a dimming shock. It had been five minutes since he first started to draw the transmutation circle.

Five minutes since the door crashed into his head.

Four minutes since Colt threw him into the table.

Three minutes since his first hand disappeared.

Two minutes since he imagined the Gate.

One minute since he lost hope of getting himself out.

**XxX**

"_Alphonse_!"

Mustang's team flinched as their commander's cry echoed through the room. All work abandoned, they watched him with thinly-veiled concern as he tossed the files he had been reading through to the ground. They scattered everywhere, causing Riza to sigh and raise a finger to her temple.

Al rushed over to the colonel's side, his armour clanking loudly with each eager step. "What is—"

"Shh!"

Roy continued to scribble on the paper before him, the pen flying and scrawling out an address. A gloved hand landed in front of it triumphantly. "There!" he said with great pride. "I've found it!"

Alphonse gave a happy gasp, bending down for a better look. "This is where Colt lives?"

"Jeremy Colt bought this property on the 24th of March, 1910. There are no records of him either selling or renting it out, nor buying another house. Therefore," Roy concluded, "he still lives here."

An audible sound of relief came from everyone in the office—the loudest of all vibrating through Alphonse's steel.

"So, Boss," Havoc took the chance to push away his paperwork, "when do we leave?"

"As soon as possible." Roy strode over to the larger table and tossed the address to Breda. "Study this. It's getting late, but if we work quickly this can be over before nineteen-hundred. Breda, Falman," he turned to the men in question, "you'll stay outside with the car. It's been three days—we might need it."

Breda and Falman nodded sharply, snapping a quick salute. "Yes, sir!"

"Fuery."

Maybe looking more than a little nervous, Fuery met Roy's determined gaze.

"You'll be driving around the streets, making sure he doesn't get away from us. Don't let any unknown vehicles through, understand?"

Fuery's demeanour changed in an instant, becoming resolved and serious. "Understood."

"Havoc?"

"Yeah?"

Roy pointed a threatening finger at him. "You're in charge of the door. We don't want him to reach the street, so make sure to stop him if he runs."

"Sure," Havoc said, cigarette hanging from his mouth and purposeful hand to his forehead. "I can do that, Boss."

"Lieutenant." Mustang faced the last of his unit to receive orders. "You're coming with me."

Riza nodded in affirmation. "Understood, sir."

"Good." Roy spun back to his desk. His usual, confident air was back—something was finally going _right_! "Make sure you know the address. I'll see you there at eighteen-hundred. Bring some kind of communication, and wear plain clothes. He can't know we're there."

"Sir!"

In a matter of seconds, the office was cleared. Only Roy, Riza, and Al remained. Al made a quiet noise, staring at his large gloves.

"Colonel… What do you want me to do?"

"You'll wait here, Alphonse," Mustang commanded. His tone left no room for arguments, but Al didn't hear it.

What?" he cried. The plumage on his helmet bobbed up and down in shock. "You're leaving me here?"

"You're a civilian." Roy walked around and sat in his chair. Though it made him considerably shorter than his opponent, the superiority never left his voice. "I can't allow you in such a delicate operation."

"It's not heart surgery!" Al exploded, shaking with anger. "Why won't you let me come?"

"You're a civi-"

"That _never mattered before_!" he interrupted forcefully. "I can help—he's my brother! Colonel! _Please_, Colonel, let me see him!"

Roy sighed and dropped his head. Wearily, he said, "I can't let you come with us. Not this time, Alphonse."

"But Ed—"

"Alphonse." Riza stepped out of his shadow gracefully, placing a soothing hand on his bulky metal arm. "You'll be able to see him before the night's over. Just let us do our job."

"Lieutenant—"

"Edward will understand," she spoke over him, "if you aren't there. Please, just calm down."

Alphonse let out a small whine, his entire body twitching with indecisiveness. If he had a face, his bottom lip would have been chewed to pieces. The hazards of loving the Fullmetal alchemist, presumably. Constant worry came with the job, written in the fine-print.

"You..." Al started, avoiding both of their faces. "You'll let me see him when you have him?"

Roy answered, "Of course."

Another quiet whine rattled Al's armour. "Then... If you promise."

"We do." Roy gave him a resolute smile. "We'll bring your brother back, Alphonse."

**XxX**

The sun cast a deep red shadow over the city of Central, alighting her windows with flame. As the sky darkened, lights flickered on in houses and men traversed the abandoned streets, methodically lighting the street lamps. Those men passed by Roy and Riza's plain vehicle without the slightest interest, continuing their jobs ignorantly.

It was eighteen-hundred—six in the evening—but the late-autumn days caused the nights to lengthen and arrive earlier. It was all how the world worked: cold months make shorter days just as surely as wars will cause despair.

Mustang had seen more than his fair share of war to understand that simple fact. Sorrow lurked around the corners of every possible fate.

The radio crackled to life, drawing attention immediately. There was a brief pause, then Breda spoke.

"We're parked roughly fifteen yards away from the door, Colonel. Awaiting further orders."

Roy reached for the hand piece, holding it firmly. There had been an incident where none of the radios would connect, merely because the buttons were too stiff. "Hold your position."

Through the static, Mustang could barely make out Breda's words, "... mow the lawn..." before his voice came through strong and clear. "Roger. Understood, sir."

"Can you see Havoc from where you are?"

"Yes, sir," Falman answered. "He's positioned several doors down from Colt's property."

Roy could imagine Havoc, lounging on the edge of the road with his feet casually stretched out in front of him. A cigarette almost definitely drooped from his fingers, dripping ash onto the pavement.

"Good work. Fuery, you there?"

"Yes, sir. I'm driving north along Cambridge Street at the moment."

"Understood." Roy's hand was beginning to cramp up around the uncooperative radio. "Riza and I are currently stationary at the base of Belmont Crescent. At eighteen-hundred and fifteen, we'll start moving. Be ready."

A chorus of 'yes, sir's greeted his instruction, bringing a pleased smile to his face. They were good men.

"Sir."

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"I would like to clear a few questions I have before we find Edward," Riza said, turning to face her commander. Her hair was down, and a simple light-blue shirt had replaced the military uniform. Those two slight changes seemed to take years off her young appearance, though stress added them back on.

"You want to know why I wouldn't let Alphonse come," he guessed. "Is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

Roy leant back against the car window, admiring how the sunset illuminated his subordinate's blonde hair. "Alright, then. I'm sure this is obvious, but Alphonse is too big for covert missions such as this. He'll be noticed."

"With all respect, sir," Riza started, and Roy knew a much harder task was ahead of him. "I cannot accept that as the only reasoning behind your decision."

"Well it was," Mustang lied through his teeth, throwing in a shrug to appear causal. "We were in a hurry, I didn't—"

"Are you afraid that Edward is already dead?" Riza's eyes were dry, but Roy had known her long enough to recognize the storm brewing behind them. He couldn't lie to her.

Sighing, he checked his watch. Eighteen-hundred and nine.

"It's…" he said, staring intently at the time. The second hand ticked slowly in anticipation. "It's been three days, Lieutenant. The moon's rising on the fourth night. We need to prepare for the worst."

"Understood, sir." She wouldn't look up, and neither would he.

"Listen," Mustang relented after several long moments of silence. "I don't wanna say this as much as you don't wanna hear it. But the chance of Fullmetal being alright is almost zero. And that's if he _is_ here—that's if Jeremy Colt really _is_ the one to blame."

"I understand."

"If he isn't here, then who knows how long we'll have to look? Nothing good could come from Alphonse being here. He'd either see Fullmetal and panic, or-or not see him and... and do the same thing. You see? I couldn't—"

"Colonel." A hand landed on the back of his glove, hiding the transmutation circle. "I understand. Alphonse will, too."

Mustang looked at their hands for a long time before he sighed and moved his away. "Right, Lieutenant. Thank you."

"You're welcome, sir."

The next few minutes were passed in silence. Roy fiddled with the hem of his shirt, running it through his fingers until Riza threw him a sharp glance. He stopped.

Sunset was still lingering on the horizon when the clock hit eighteen-hundred and fifteen, the sky the colour of the blood Roy hoped not to see inside Colt's house. But whether it was there or not, he needed to find Ed—whatever was left of him, if necessary. If it came to that.

God, Roy hoped it wouldn't.

"Let's go," he muttered to his subordinate, morbid thoughts careening through his mind. He tried his best to kill them, but nothing seemed to work.

Riza gave a quick military nod and opened her door. Though it appeared casual, Mustang knew her gun was ready to come out at any moment. She was like that—competent and wary. A good soldier.

It must have looked like a nice evening's stroll to anyone without any inside information. A man and a woman—possibly a couple—walking side by side through the derelict neighbourhood. Perhaps, if there had been flowers, the man could have presented his companion with a bouquet. Perhaps—if it had really been a nice evening's stroll.

Perhaps... if Edward's life wasn't undetermined. But the Fullmetal alchemist had become Schrödinger's cat; dead or alive, Roy would have to open the box and deal with the consequences.

"Sir."

The colonel turned to see his lieutenant standing several paces behind him, one hand hidden inside her coat pocket. Roy heard the click of her nails on metal, and knew she cradled the gun in her palm.

"It's this way, sir."

"Oh." Mustang's shoes clopped along the ground like miniature horses. The irony wasn't lost on him. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

Riza didn't answer for a beat, and then they fell into step again. "It's okay to be distracted now, sir," she said with a touch of hesitancy colouring her words. "But you'll need to be focused when we get inside."

"I know." Breda and Falman's car came into view as they rounded a corner, Havoc sitting just a few metres ahead. "Thanks for taking care of me, Lieutenant."

"It's a pleasure, sir."

They lapsed into silence as the crossed through Havoc's blurring shadow, and through the cloud of smoke above his head. Everything had gone smoothly so far, but the real mission had barely begun. First, they had to somehow get through the front gate.

The old metal was so rusted and so discoloured it was impossible to decide whether it was steel or iron. Maybe it was both—a chimera born of leftover junk and bad taste. The latch was barely more than a few chunks of rust and dirt. It didn't look like it had moved in years.

The garden wasn't any better. Grass that may have once been well-manicured ran rampant across what resembled a crumbling footpath. It grew between the cracks in the stone, through garden beds that held only weeds, and even out into the street. The longer strands tickled Roy's boots.

"This," he said, pointing at the peeling paint on the rotting door, "is worse than... than what I expected."

Riza hummed a noise of agreement, but then she squared her shoulders. "We should hurry, sir."

Then, without another word, she climbed over the waist-high fence and started up the path. Her gun was out, gleaming by her face, and though she didn't once glance down, Riza managed to evade the reaching grasp of the weeds with grace.

And, well, Roy couldn't be outdone by his lieutenant.

Soon, they were standing beneath the sorrowful veranda. Not a single sheet of wrought iron remained on its skeletal frame, though plenty littered the ground beneath.

"It's hard to believe someone's living here," Roy murmured, mostly to himself. It really was a pitiful house.

While Riza stood watch behind him, Mustang tested the doorknob. It screeched as he turned it, but the door never opened. He glanced to the lieutenant, an unspoken message passing between them, and then he raised his boot. With one well-placed kick, the lock shattered, allowing the hinges to creak inwards. If Colt was home, he'd know they were there.

But there was nothing. A thick layer of dust—the product of many neglectful years—suffocated furniture that looked weary from disuse. A cheap, woven rug lay on the scuffed floorboards, slowly darkening from age. Large colonies of mould festered on the walls. No picture frames hung against the peeling wallpaper—nor anywhere else for that matter—and it all seemed so… empty. Devoid of life.

That was what set the first seeds of doubt to grow in Roy's mind. He had an idea that the amount of noise they created was irrelevant—they were the first houseguests in a long time.

"Sir—"

"I know, Lieutenant," he interrupted, holding a hand up for her to quieten. "Let's just check."

They had wandered straight into the foyer. And living room and dining room, also. A rickety table wilted in the corner, joined by a faded garden chair. Almost directly beside it in the cramped space sat a pale green couch. The centre was sagging towards the floor and stains spotted the arms. More mould crept up the sides, creating its own pattern on the otherwise plain sofa. It smelt like damp and dust.

A tiny window above the table appeared to lead to the kitchen. Roy gave the signal to Riza and she vanished down the adjoining corridor, gun prepared as always.

He followed her example and raised his weapon. Maybe he was wrong; maybe Jeremy was lurking just behind the next corner.

But it didn't take long to disprove that theory. The kitchen was even smaller than the foyer/living/dining room. Barely more than a row of cupboards lined the wall, with a tiny wood oven opposite. Roy allowed himself a few moments to feel sympathy for the man who lived there, before starting to dig through the cupboard drawers. There must have been a clue somewhere. A new address—one that the military never found. Maybe it was in the kitchen. Maybe.

The first drawer held nothing more than a broken key ring; the second just three forks, four knives, and a teaspoon; the third contained a plate, bowl, and—oddly enough—a wooden peg. But the fourth held the most interesting objects. A pencil, a blank notebook, and a photograph.

Roy gently lifted the fragile paper by the corner. It was black and white, though probably no more than five years old. Flipping it over revealed that it was taken on the 5th of November, 1912. Two years old, then.

It showed a blurry image of two men, similar in both looks and attire. Attitude, too, it seemed. Their black suits reflected their expressions, being somber and dark. A crowd of people stood frozen in the background, all wearing black, and one of the men held a white lily in his hand. In neat handwriting below the image, someone had written:

_Arthur and I at Mother's funeral, November._

Roy's mouth tightened. So that was Jeremy Colt. The photo was a much better representation of their target than the military profile.

Loud, purposeful footsteps strode down the short hallway, and Roy stiffened before recognizing them. Riza stuck her head into the kitchen, making no effort to be quiet. The house was empty, then.

"I found something that may be important," she informed him, without wasting any time. "Follow me."

Roy did so with no questions asked. She had that look on her eye, the one that said everything was under her control. She had the advantage.

There were only three doors leading out of a hallway that could have been better described as a central meeting area. And a small one, at that. The one facing the foyer was a laundry, but Roy didn't see much more than that before he was forced through the left doorway.

A single bed occupied most of the space, so much so that Roy's knees hit the frame as soon as he entered. The window wasn't doing much to illuminate the room, so he felt around and tugged on the light string. With a quiet click, he was able to see what had the lieutenant so interested.

It was a shrine, dedicated to _'Margaret'_, an old woman with deep lines in her face. Most of them seemed to be from unhappiness—Margaret must not have been the most fortunate woman in the world. A single look at her crumbling shrine said just that. It featured just an amateur portrait of her face and several unlit candles.

"A mother?" Riza suggested. She stayed out of the room, knowing there was no more space inside. "Grandmother?"

"Mother," Roy confirmed as he passed the photograph back to her. "Died two years ago."

The frown was clear in Riza's voice. "But there was no mention of family in the report."

"A mistake." Roy reversed into the hallway and closed the door behind him. "An oversight. But if Jeremy isn't here, he's probably staying with that other man. Maybe they're accomplices."

"Or brothers," Riza said, pointing to the picture. "They have very similar features."

Roy hummed and nodded, agreeing. "I noticed that. So this... Arthur Colt is our next suspect?"

"It would seem so, Colonel." Riza's gun disappeared into her coat. "Are you ready to begin the new search?"

**So was it alright? I really don't know what many people think of this story—please review and tell me!**


	7. The Second Thursday

_**Three Wise Monkeys**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**Yes. It's Sunday. Almost Monday. But I honestly didn't forget to upload. The problem was, I remembered just as we got in the car, and I haven't had internet access since. I'm sorry for the delay! And thank you _so much _to last week's reviewers :) it was the most feedback I've gotten for this story!**

**WARNINGS: Character death, blood, language, and torture in this chapter.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.**

_**CHAPTER SEVEN • The Second Thursday**_

"Well?"

Colt turned towards the owner of the intrusive voice, his mouth instinctively twisting into something that may have once been a smile. Fear and dread morphed it, changed it, until that horrible smile became a cry for help, a cry that would never be answered.

The creature raised an eyebrow, expecting an answer. It sat on the shabby couch, arms thrown casually along the back and one knee crossed over the other. The position was uncaring, relaxed, _deadly_.

Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, Colt managed to ask, "Well what?"

"Well?" it repeated, standing with an ease that resembled liquid. A deep crimson liquid, spilling from its victim's throat. "I think it's time we discussed payment, don't you?"

"Payment?" Colt echoed warily. His hands itched for a weapon, but there was nothing that would stand up to his uninvited guest. "You never said anything about payment."

At that, the creature laughed. It tossed its head back in mirth, long tendrils of hair brushing the edge of the couch and bouncing, dancing, as if they had a mind of their own. "Did you really think," it cackled, "that I would do this out of the goodness of my heart? That I would go out and help you kill all those people _just for you?_"

"I-isn't that what you've been doing?"

"Ha!" it held its sides, perhaps in an effort to calm down. "Is my name '_Charity'_? Or '_Kindness_'? That Heavenly Virtues crap doesn't really apply to me… which is why I'm here." The laughter died down in an instant and the creature leered at Colt. "Isn't that right, _Jeremy_?" It spun away, joy literally seeping from its bone-white skin. "Little Jeremy! Poor, average little Jeremy! Stuck in your brother's shadow—well now you're out! And it's all thanks to _me_! So I have just one thing to ask."

Colt didn't dare meet its violet eyes. Maybe, if he was humble enough, it would spare him. There was no other choice, since, "I have no money."

"Oh, stupid little Jeremy," it lamented, holding its head in mock disappointment. "It seems I was right about calling you _average_. When did I ever ask for money?" It leant in close, until Colt moved away. "I can recall capturing the Fullmetal alchemist for you. I can also recall you keeping him to yourself for days and days.""

Colt didn't understand. "So?"

"It's against my orders," it wandered back to the couch and fell into it, "to let the shorty die."

"But he can't die."

"Exactly." Envy grinned with pure, child-like glee as his transformation began. Then Colt was staring at himself, the other's skin crackling with dangerous energy. His temporary doppelgänger started to inspect his nails. "I just wanna have some _fun_ with the runt."

"A-and what about the payment?"

He didn't even see it move. But then a semi-gloved hand clamped around Colt's neck, lifting his feet from the ground. "Wha—" he squawked, but a twitch of Envy's finger silenced him instantly.

"I don't want you here," the monster explained, his tone neutral. "You're annoying. You think you're superior, right, _human_?"

Colt was terrified. Warmth spread down his leg, adding to his humiliation. He stared into his own eyes, watching as they narrowed in anticipation, and prayed to whatever deity might listen that his life be spared.

The hand—_his hand—_tightened around his neck. His mouth twisted in delight and a truly crazed gleam filled the duplicate's expression. Then, faster than he could register it, Colt's head spun until he stared at the kitchen doorway. The echo of snapping vertebrae left him unable to breathe, as did the creature's final taunt.

"I hate idiots like you."

**XxX**

Ed didn't know what he expected when Colt walked in. Not a _'good morning'_ or a _'good evening'_, or even a _'how has your day been_?' All of those were too casual, too friendly. That would make it seem as if Ed's hand _wasn't_ bound at an odd angle, or that his ribs _weren't_ showing through his skin. It would create a false sense of normalcy—a concept that Ed had almost forgotten. It was as if he had spent the past few _years_ of his life under Colt's rule, not just a few days.

The hatred Edward harboured towards his captor was only overshadowed by one other thing: Ed's own ability to come back from the dead. Wouldn't it be better to just... _stay dead_? It would certainly put a knot in Colt's plans, that was for sure. There was Alphonse to think about, but where was he? Where was Ed's little brother? It had been so long... it was hard to imagine they were still looking for him. It took Ed only two days to locate Colt's house. Were they _ever_ going to come?

But that wasn't important. Because, while Ed's mind ran off on a tangent, Colt was very much focused. And when Ed finally thought to glance up at him, he met satisfied black eyes.

"Are you ready for today's lesson?" Colt asked, as if he were a priest beginning a Sunday ceremony.

Ed stated up at him, blinking slowly. He wasn't ready. He never was. He doubted he ever would be. Sitting on the floor, cowering beneath the table, with both hands, an arm, and a leg missing, Ed felt more damaged than ever.

He was so stupid. So proud and stupid. Still a child, no matter his past.

"Get on the table."

Though his mouth was unbound, Edward did as he was told without protest. Colt had shown him what would happen if he caused trouble. He was reminded of it every time he raised his left wrist.

He lay on the table with his arm and leg straight, staring at the ceiling and wishing he could melt through the floor. What a useful ability that would be. Better than immortality.

Stringy, greasy hair hung across his face, but Ed daren't push it away. That was one of Colt's new rules: no moving. No moving, no questions, no speaking, no screaming, no protest. Nothing, basically. Ed's job was to lie there, like a doll, and pretend he was somewhere far, far away.

_Far away…_

_F-far away…_

Each time the knife touched his skin, those words would run through his head. It became a song, of sorts. Irregular, quiet, and strangely pitched. What would a song of torture sound like? If asked before, Ed might have said 'screams' or 'noise', a cacophony of sounds building into one, mind-shattering crescendo. But experience forced him to admit that silence itself was a form of torture. And it was much more effective.

_Far… Far away…_

If he concentrated hard enough, the metallic scent of his blood would fade. He could smell Risembool—like dirt paths and freshly-cut grass—and even see her valleys rolling away from him, seemingly into eternity. Oh, if only.

If he blocked out the pain as much as he could, each wound inflicted reminded him of the trainings with Teacher, of fighting with Alphonse, the bee sting he got when he was four.

_Far away..._

Each time he died was a camera flash, a memento of the important events in his life. His first fish, a family portrait, playing dolls with Winry. There was even a photo of himself and the rest of Mustang's team tacked up on Ed's memory-board.

If he just pretended he was somewhere else, he would be. He only needed focus, and a bit of patience. He could get through it, if—

"Hey." An unimpressed voice intruded on Ed's thoughts, successfully scattering them. "Don't be falling asleep. We're not up to the good part, yet."

Edward licked his parched lips, dreading what the 'good part' may be. In what might have been a whisper, or also a passing breeze, he managed to say, "_Food_."

Colt chuckled, as if remembering a good joke. "Maybe. If you do well."

Ed's spirits dropped. The last time Colt had promised food, it too had come with conditions. He hadn't met them before, but the hunger was tearing him apart. No matter what, Ed would do it for food.

"What..." he rasped. A glass of water would have been appreciated, "is it… I have to... do?"

There was no answer, but a gentle tugging on the bandages around his stump of a wrist. They were coming off, he realised with widening eyes. Did Colt plan to cut off his hand again?

Ed didn't watch, but the sound of his bones reshaping was impossible to ignore. They cracked and ground against each other, snapped and popped into the right place. When it was all complete, a cold object was pressed into his palm. A long, flat object with a sharp edge that cut into his new skin.

He didn't move. That was against the rules. Colt curled Ed's fingers around the knife, forcing him to hold it tightly. It would have been so easy, so easy to plunge the blade through Colt's unprotected neck. Colt would have been left blubbering up blood, and Edward would have been able to escape. Run, shout, yell, scream, _fight_.

Once he found his automail, of course.

But that didn't happen. The dream he wished up stayed just that—a dream and a wish. Instead, he listened obediently to Colt's instructions.

When they were finished, Ed couldn't help himself. His head whipped around to see Colt, shock and dread staining his face a deathly white. "Y-you can't be serious," he stammered, knowing that whatever Colt would do to him couldn't be worse than... than...

"I'm completely serious," Colt replied, a slight smile dancing on his lips. "If you want to eat, I want you to do this. I'm not working anymore, you know, and food is getting harder to come by."

Ed's mouth worked furiously, though few sounds came out. "B-but -"

"Well, if that's your decision." Colt lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. "I'll leave you alone."

"No, wait!" Ed cried out desperately as Colt turned towards the door. His voice was shaking and weak, dry with dehydration. Colt glanced back, triumph shining in his eyes. With as much effort as could be expected, Ed spoke. "I'll... I'll d-do it."

Colt smiled cruelly. "Good choice."

Ed didn't know how long he had been living in Colt's 'spare room'. Weeks, he would guess. Days of being left alone, drifting in and out of consciousness. But those days were better than the alternative. Colt's demands had become more difficult, and his attitude had changed, leading Ed to believe that the unsettlingly cheery man he met at first really was nothing more than an act. He wished Colt would replace the mask, and at least pretend to be considerate.

Maybe that was what caused Ed to hesitate, staring beseechingly into his captor's hard eyes. Perhaps Colt would be merciful, maybe reinstate the question-for-knife wound policy again. Maybe.

But there was nothing but gloating pride in his unremarkable face. Colt knew he had found it. That one... unthinkable act that Ed couldn't bestow on another—let alone himself.

It was time to toughen up, his stomach reminded him abruptly, before the pains started again. All the other scars would fade, but his hunger refused to abate.

"Well?" Colt prodded Ed's thinning arm hard, his nail leaving a shallow crescent in the flesh. "What's happening? Have you changed your mind?"

It seemed impossible that he still had enough liquid left for tears, yet still they pricked at the corners of his eyes. "No, I just..."

"Hurry up. And don't cry—it's pathetic."

_Pathetic._

"Sorry."

The word described him fairly well, at that moment.

The knife in his palm was warm and sweaty from his tight grip. It shook, light reflecting from its sharpened edge like miniature bolts of lightning. Ed knew exactly how that blade would feel beneath his skin. He caught a glimpse of himself in the polished surface. Not much—barely more than a bloodshot, golden eye—and streaked from a hasty clean, but it was enough to tear down any sense of control that he thought he might have had. Just like before, when Colt had taken his hand, Ed was completely helpless.

"Where," he said in a voice that was more of a croak. It sounded as if he had swallowed a frog, but he knew that was impossible. He was still too hungry. "What should... I-I do?"

"Exactly like I did." Colt guided the knife down to rest above Ed's heart. A thrill of fear ran through the victim—would it count as suicide if he came back to life? Or was that attempted-suicide? "Start here, why don't you?"

Edward's chest rose and fell rapidly, hitting the knife at every inhale. It was like the time he toppled into the river back in Risembool. Winry had dragged him out, but it was several hours before Ed could stop flinching at every noise.

Colt released the knife, leaving it to tremble in Ed's grasp. "On the count of three, all right?

"One."

Ed clamped his hand around the handle.

"Two."

It felt like a butter knife. That was what he had thought in the pub, wasn't it? A butter knife?

"Three."

Ed's heart was beating so fast he didn't think he would have to plunge the knife downwards. Surely, any faster and it would burst straight out of his chest.

But it didn't emerge, and Ed was forced to strike the killing blow himself.

His teeth ground together, nostrils flared, but he had barely penetrated even an inch. When Ed dropped his arm, the handle stood upright for only a second before clattering onto the wooden table.

Colt frowned and pursed his lips. "That wasn't a very good attempt, little alchemist. Why don't we try again?"

Ed wanted to tell him where to stick the knife, but he was too fatigued to think up any words. The blade was once again pushed into his palm, and held above his heart.

"Do it properly, now," Colt warned. Ed didn't need to be told twice. By not finishing the job, he was essentially prolonging his own torture. What person—sane or not—would choose that.

"One...

"Two...

"Three."

The world flared into detail, exposing every one of its little secrets. A small colony of spiders nested in the cornice above the door. A crack in the ceiling looked just like an oak leaf.

And then it was over—black. Complete darkness. Only for a second, it flared white, and Ed had to wonder if he had somehow done it. If he had somehow struck the final killing blow. Was that blinding emptiness the colour he yearned for?

Of course it wasn't. His relieved hope disappeared as soon as the white turned to grey, which in turn changed to black, and then he was left staring up at the ceiling. Again.

"So?" Colt asked eagerly, and Ed's eyes flicked over tiredly. "What was it like?"

Ed coughed slightly to clear his dry throat. "It hurt."

A little disappointed with the monotone response, Colt reached across and plucked the knife from Ed's chest. It was already working its way out on its own, like the dumb waiter from hell, sent back and forth from Edward's heart to the living. It—as well as most of the table—was covered in blood. But Ed didn't care about Colt's choice of decor.

"Can I... eat now?" he asked wearily.

"Not now," Colt replied, and Ed found himself too weak to argue. "It's barely midday. I'll bring something around for dinner, how does that sound?"

Ed knew that if he wasn't so tired, he would have been roaring louder than a caged lion. But the way he was going, a strong whisper was the most he could manage.

Colt must have taken Ed's silence for agreement, for soon he was nodding his head, pleased with the day's effort, and leaving. Ed could only hope that he made good on his promise, and brought him something to eat and drink. Even milk was looking marvellous.

But thoughts of food couldn't occupy his mind forever. Soon, memories began to flood in. Well, not exactly memories—plural. _A_ memory, and a very recent one.

His hand on the hilt, his blood flowing from a wound he inflicted, that short glimpse of what may have been the gate... He felt stained. Dirty. Impure. Again, the technicalities confused him—was he a murderer, because he had killed? But the victim was himself, and he didn't die. So was it attempted murder? Or attempted suicide?

_Argh_, his head ached.

Something warm and wet was sliding down his cheeks. His first though: blood. But the rational part of his brain corrected: no, tears.

_Tears_? Ed's arm shuddered up to scrub them off, smearing his face with more blood. He was sure he looked like a monster, with a crimson face and matted, clotted hair. But that didn't matter. Because inside Colt's domain, he was a monster. An immortal... _joke_ of a human being.

If he was even human in the first place.

The Fullmetal alchemist. He was a joke, too, Ed decided. No one so powerful could fall so low. All it took was one man, a missing arm, and too many mistakes to bring the Fullmetal alchemist to his one knee.

His friends, family, colleagues—all jokes. They didn't care that he was missing. They were probably all laughing up at the office.

"_Hey, Alphonse, where's your brother?"_

_"Oh, you know him. Probably off causing trouble. It's only been a few weeks, after all."_

_"Maybe he'll be taller when we see him next!"_

The image caused Ed to grind his teeth. Maybe they weren't the joke, but he was. The Fullmetal shrimp, tiny hero of the people. Probably needs his little brother's help reaching the top shelf.

He wouldn't admit that the last one was true.

They weren't coming to rescue him. Alphonse, Mustang, Havoc, Riza... They all had their own lives, and who was he to say he was an important part of them? A teenage boy who couldn't even fix his own mistakes.

He reached up again to dry his face, but a sound stopped him. A clanking creak, right beside his table.

Tentatively, Edward opened his eyes.

His little brother loomed overhead, polished steel shining brighter than ever before. "Shh!" the suit of armour said, putting a large finger in front of where his mouth should have been. "Be quiet until we know it's safe."

Ed blinked, stunned. Of everything he had come to expect, his potential rescue wasn't very high.

"We?" Ed thought he was being quiet, but Al became even more fidgety.

"The colonel, the lieutenant, and me," Al started to shift anxiously from foot to foot, making more noise than Ed could even if he tried. "Havoc's waiting outside. Are you coming or not?"

"I'm coming, Al." Ed sounded a lot calmer than he felt. It was more than a little surreal. Inside, he waged an internal battle filled with emotions he couldn't even name. "But I..."

"What is it, Brother?" Alphonse was already at the door. Strange—Ed hadn't seen him move.

"I... I can't walk... at the moment," Ed admitted, his cheeks colouring in shame.

"Why not?"

"It's been weeks, Al." He looked away, unable to bear the sight of his brother. The war had been won, and a single emotion came out on top. Resentment.

"Oh, yeah." The suit of armour lounged against the door in a way that seemed very... not-Al. "Well, you see, there were other things that needed taking care of."

"Like _what_?" Ed demanded in his raspy mockery of a voice. "Why couldn't you help me first?"

"Hmm." Alphonse tapped his fingers together thoughtfully. "I wanted my body back, so I went to the Gate. I thought appearing in this form would be better, after all Colt's done to you."

"What..." Each word was more and more painful, "do you mean?"

"Isn't it nice to see a familiar face, Brother?"

Ed's sight began to blur, but not so much that he couldn't see the suit of armour disintegrating, like it was being pulled apart. "Al..."

But the face that emerged from beneath the steal wasn't that of his younger brother—not only Al, at least. It flickered from one person to the next: Al, the colonel, Mother, Pinako, Colt, Fuery—

And then it settled on one appearance. A large, toothy smile set against a white backdrop, and nothing more.

"He was so close," the Gate said in its many voices. "But you let him down."

Ed's throat was so sore, he couldn't make a noise.

**I remember writing this chapter. It was about midnight, I was sharing a hotel room with my parents and sister (happy birthday!), and using the crappy wifi to research psychological torture techniques. Let me know if it paid off! Please send me a review :)**

**Next chapter will be on Friday, like normal.**


	8. The Third Friday

_**THREE WISE MONKEYS**_

**Hey! pale-blue11!**

**I haven't had time to edit this—the internet died this morning and I have about five minutes before Mum realises I stole her phone :/ sorry it's later than I promised, LadyOfBirds!**

**WARNINGS: Character death, blood, language, and torture in this chapter.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.**

_**CHAPTER EIGHT • The Third Friday**_

Colt didn't return for a long time. Days, maybe. Weeks. Ed didn't blame him. The stench of undigested bread and whatever else had been in Ed's stomach still stained the air—if smells could have colours, it would be an off-white, mixed with pale green and beige. Like off-milk, left on the front doorstep in the summer. Splashes of grey and red mingled with it, the metallic colours of dried blood.

But at least it had gotten him another bath, though it hadn't been easier or more comfortable than the first—which was saying quite a lot. It was nice, however, to be almost clean. The bathroom floor couldn't say the same.

He was drifting off to sleep. A heavy feeling was spreading throughout his body, as if someone had filled his veins with lead. In that state, thoughts became clearer, yet more disjointed, and he could pretend he was back home. In Risembool. With the hard wood against his bare back, it was like sleeping on the old jetty. Even his shorts were still damp.

No.

He didn't want to sleep. For many—and sometimes for him—it was an escape, but that didn't guarantee that he would escape to somewhere nice. After careful thought, he determined that the vision of Alphonse and the Gate was merely that—a vision. But the paranoia and bitterness refused to leave so simply.

No matter how much he willed himself to stay awake, he couldn't stop himself drifting in and out. Flashes of Mother, glimpses of Alphonse, all filling his crumbling mind as if they wanted him to lose his grip. They always knew what was best for him, after all, and only his pride was pushing him to stay sane. Colt may have beaten him, but not completely.

_Not yet._

But his eyelids were dropping lower and lower, the lashes fluttering as he struggled against sleep. Any second, he would lose his grip, and tumble into the nightmares lurking, grinning, waiting for him. Any second...

_Bang!_

Ed lurched up so fast his vision swam with black dots and a stab of pain shot through his head. His hand flew to his temple, and, with nothing to support him, he collapsed back onto the table with a noise almost as loud as that which had startled him.

"Did I scare you?" Colt asked innocently. Ed wasn't able to hide the shudder he gave at that thought. "Were you sleeping?"

Ed cleared his throat. It felt as if it were swelling, but he knew he was only thirsty. A bit of water, and he'd be fine. Well, better, at least. "No," he croaked. "Do you... want something?"

Humming thoughtfully, Colt stepped closer to the bed. "I suppose... Are you interested in a new game?"

Feeling a bit daring—or perhaps stupid—Ed said, "Does it involve letting... me go?"

Colt laughed, long and loud. "I thought you'd stopped with that, Pipsqueak! You know why I can't let you leave!"

"Because I'd... tell the colonel... what you did?"

"Exactly." Colt held the knife loosely, and Ed couldn't tear his focus away from it. "But there's not much he could do, is there?"

"You're… a murderer," Ed said laboriously. "They'll put you… in front of the… fi-firing squad."

"May-be." Colt accentuated every syllable by tapping Ed's nose with the knife. Ed frowned, suddenly even more wary. Colt wasn't acting like himself, and the new attitude reminded him of… "But that wouldn't be too nice. I _hate _pain."

And it clicked.

Colt smirked at him, cocking out a hip and placing a hand on it. His grin grew, menacing, to the extent of human capability and beyond. "So you've figured it out now, Shorty?"

He had. "Envy."

"Very good!" the homunculus applauded with mock admiration as light wiped away his façade. "I wondered how many hints I'd have to drop. You humans never look past what's in front of your face. Kinda makes me wonder how they survived so long."

"We're not… stupid."

"No, we're not." Envy leant forward and traced the knife along Ed's jawline. "That _oaf_ who called me is, though. Or…" he tapped the blade twice before drawing back, "he _was_."

Ed frowned, his eyes never leaving the knife. "Colt called you? He has a… telephone?"

"_Him_?" Envy laughed at the mere suggestion. "_Him_? With a _telephone_? I doubt anyone in this _neighbourhood_ owns a telephone!"

"What, then?"

"You wouldn't understand, shrimp."

"Bastard."

Envy's smile turned deadly, full of hatred and disgust. "So…" he said quietly, in a voice as smooth and sweet as honey, "would you like another guess, or should I describe the game?"

Though every nerve in his body screamed not to, Ed couldn't ignore the opportunity. "Will you give me food?"

Envy's eyes thinned in annoyance, but he only shrugged. The response may have infuriated Edward at any other time, but he was so _tired_. "Probably not," he admitted airily. "It still stinks in here. If you throw up again, I'm _not_ cleaning it up. What about water, hmm?"

Ed nodded as strongly as he could. Water would be very good. Anything was sounding great, at that moment. Even milk.

Okay, maybe not milk.

Envy clasped his hands together, the knife glinting like some strange offering to the gods. "That's great news! Now, you have one last guess. Would you like to take it?"

A quick shake of the head. Ed didn't think he could stand saying another word.

"Oh, this is going to be fun!" the homunculus exclaimed, and Ed knew it would be anything but.

**XxX**

Sometimes being an animated suit of armour was taxing, but other times it was a real advantage. There were no sore eyes from poring over thousands of files, no fatigue from nights of constant reading, and no need for rest or breaks. Just steady, unrelenting research. Unfortunately, only Al could say that. The remainder of Mustang's team were dead on their feet.

The lieutenant had left three hours before to feed Black Hayate, and she hadn't come back. Al wasn't sure if she had fallen asleep or if she wasn't returning until the next morning. He wouldn't blame her for either—it was already late afternoon, and most of them had been there since Tuesday. Al was too preoccupied to work out the hours, but he knew that was a long time. He hoped no one else had any pets.

Havoc's quiet snoring was the only sound, aside from the clock on the main table and the human traffic outside. A thin line of drool leaked from the corner of his mouth, dangerously close to whatever he was working on. The air was warm and smelt of coffee, since empty mugs lay scattered over every available surface.

But the peace of tired study was broken when the large door opened. Bloodshot eyes turned towards the visitor, and Havoc sat up with a disgruntled expression. The young soldier peered in nervously, shifting his weight beneath the many stares fixed upon him.

"There, uh," he started, fingers twitching together as he struggled to keep his gaze off the floor. "There's a girl... She wants to talk to Alphonse Elric."

Al forgot about his research in an instant. "Winry?" he asked, and not even he could know if it was fear or anticipation in his voice. "She's here?"

The soldier shook his head. "No, uh... Mr Elric. She's on the phone."

Together, they left, feeling the heavy stares settled on their backs. Alphonse hadn't spent much time in the part of the building they walked to. Usually, he was just following Ed, and the phone room wasn't high on Ed's list of interests.

The soldier led Alphonse to a phone near the back corner. Its black hand piece was balanced carefully on top of the receiver, and blank pieces of paper littered the ground beneath it, in case someone needed to write a message. It looked so normal, but Al knew that his stomach would have been full of butterflies, if he had a stomach.

Leaving with an encouraging—and slightly relieved—smile, the soldier turned. His shoes clicked on the stone floor until he rounded a corner and disappeared. Then there was nothing else to do. Al had to listen to Winry, and he could guess what type of mood she'd be in.

What if she asked about Edward?

"Alphonse?" her voice came through the line almost as soon as he picked it up, sounding tinny and annoyed. "I swear, if you keep me waiting much longer, I'll-"

"I'm here, Winry." Al hoped she couldn't hear his distraction. What would he tell her about Ed? "Sorry for taking so long. And, uh... why'd you call the military line?"

"How else am I supposed to contact you? I rang the dormitory, but they didn't know where you two were. You left me no choice!"

"Sorry, Winry." Maybe, if he kept apologizing, she'd be more forgiving. "Is something wrong?"

"_Yes_!" Winry replied venomously, causing Al to physically recoil from the phone. "What the hell are you doing, Alphonse? You left on Saturday—without telling Granny or me _anything_—and never thought once to call!"

"I did—" Al tried to lie, but she cut him off again.

"It's been six days, Al," she said, quietly. Through the crackling static, it was impossible to know what she was feeling. "Six days. I know I don't usually call but... God, Alphonse. You were really scary on Saturday."

"Scary?"

"You were..." she paused to think, and Al could imagine her anxiously fiddling with a bolt or screw as she did so, "really... distracted? Or maybe... frantic? Oh, I dunno. I've never seen you like that!"

"I'm okay, Winry." Al crossed his fingers, hoping she wouldn't pick up on his avoidance.

No such luck. Either Winry was a mind reader, or she had really good intuition.

"And Ed?" Her tone had softened—she wasn't so mad anymore—but that could all change in an instant. In fact, it probably would.

Alphonse hesitated. He wanted to answer, he really did. But... he didn't want to make Winry upset.

"Al?"

"He, uh... I-I mean..."

"Al?" The first signs of dread were leaking into her voice. "Is Ed okay? Is he?"

He really didn't want to say anything. "We... We don't actually know... right now."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Is he busy?"

"Uh-h, not exactly. We don't know."

"Alphonse." Though she sounded calm, Al could recognize the Winry's fear. It was the same every time he and Ed did something dangerous. "Please tell me. Where's Ed right now? Why can't he come to the phone?"

"Brother's missing." It was out. He'd said it. And everything was immediately worse.

He heard Winry inhale sharply, and prepared for a shout, a yell, a '_how could you let this happen to him_?' But she only let it out as a long, shaking breath. "I see," she said softly. "That call on Saturday, was it from Ed's superior?"

Al shook his head, armour causing a racket. "No. I was talking to Brother when... Well, we're not entirely sure what happened." Lying really was easier over the phone. "We're looking for him."

Winry didn't speak. As the silence stretch on, Al wished she would say something. Even an accusation would be better than the quiet. It was as if that moment was lasting forever, and it wasn't really a moment Al wanted to prolong.

"Win-"

"That idiot," she interrupted. Her words sounded thick and dull, as if she had a bad cold. As if she was saying _'the sky is blue'_, or _'fire burns'. 'Edward's an idiot'_ fit right in with the other truths.

Al's armour clinked in alarm. "No, Winry, don't cry! Really—we'll find him!"

"I'm not crying." Her protestations sounded weak, but sincere. "I said I wouldn't. I won't until Ed's safe again."

She went quiet, and Alphonse shifted his weight uncomfortably. He wanted to comfort her, but how would that work with her in Risembool and him in Central?

"We have a suspect," he said, hoping it would help in some way. "We'll find him soon, Winry, I promise."

"I know, Al." It was the least certain assurance he had ever heard. "Please find him soon. Granny and I'll be there as soon as possible, so... Please have him there to greet us."

"Y-you don't have to come, Wi-"

"I'm coming," Winry snapped. "The idiot's broken my automail again, I can feel it."

Despite the gloomy atmosphere, Al found himself laughing. Suddenly, getting Ed back seemed more like a certainty than a hope. It was a wonderful transition.

"You're probably right," he agreed. "I'll see you soon, then. We'll get him back for you to fix."

"Alright, Al." Winry gave a quiet, sad chuckle. "I'll hold you to that."

Alphonse hung up the phone feeling more drained than ever. Never had he felt so hollow, so... empty. The irony wasn't lost on him. But instead of a suit of armour, Al would have likened himself to an egg. An egg with the insides removed, and only the fragile outer shell to keep up appearances.

Ed would have laughed if Alphonse told him that.

But where was he?

**XxX**

Ed ran his fingers across his collarbone. He had new scars there, to match the ones on his right shoulder. The scar tissue was raised and bumpy. Messy. Organised. Contradictory. Envy hadn't said what he carved into Edward's skin, but his touch found a definite 'F' closest to his neck.

And the fact that it was already melting proved that Ed had failed the day's 'activity'. He was ordered not to let it heal, to somehow stop his skin re-knitting itself. That was almost more painful than the actual... application. It had left Ed with gritted teeth, sweat pouring from him and mixing with fresh and old blood. That part was disgusting, but nothing he hadn't experienced before. He'd been through quite a lot in the past few weeks.

And he'd probably go through a lot more before Envy was finished. A lot more.

But Envy had rewarded him for his efforts. A glass of water and a biscuit that was most likely baked around 1880. It had basically grown its own ecosystem, but food was food, no matter how unappealing. And thankfully, Ed managed to keep it down.

It wasn't long before he saw the effects. His ribs no longer stuck out like they wanted to explode from his chest. The sunken pit of his stomach had levelled out. It wasn't back to normal, but at least it was an improvement. Even his arm and leg had regained some of their old muscle.

But _Envy_ had him. That pretty much guaranteed that the remainder of his existence would be… _uncomfortable_, to say the least.

And how hadn't he noticed? For what… two weeks? For two weeks, Envy had been _there_, watching him, hurting him, enjoying his pain. It made so much _sense_.

Ed touched Envy's latest addition. Yes… that was an 'F'. For some reason, Envy took a long time to write something on Ed's collarbone. It hadn't healed properly, thanks to Ed's effort and constant, painful, patient reapplication on Envy's part. But he was Envy. Insane. Ed wasn't really surprised, since he understood. The next letter was... maybe an 'O'. Or an 'A', perhaps.

He gave up on reading it. It didn't really matter. Nothing did anymore. He was stuck under Envy's limited mercy, awaiting the day he died a conclusive death. A final death. One he couldn't wake up from.

His life was so messed up.

**Please leave a review :)**


	9. The Third Saturday

_**THREE WISE MONKEYS**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**The next chapter's short, so I'll post it on Tuesday (7th of April) if this chapter gets 7 reviews :) the next chapter would be posted Friday the 10th, but after that I'm going away for the holidays. This is pretty much the half-way mark for the story :D**

**Happy Easter to those who celebrate it!**

**WARNINGS: Character death, blood, and language.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.**

_**CHAPTER 9 • The Third Saturday**_

"Boss!" Breda yelled, standing up so fast his chair clattered backwards. "Colonel! I've got it!"

Roy lifted his head off of his desk, blinking against the early morning sunlight streaming in through the window. "Huh?"

"I've got it, Colonel!" Breda gathered up the files in front of him and waddled over to shove them in Mustang's face. "See?"

"I don't see anything," Roy mumbled, wondering if he could get back to sleep if he tried. "What is it?"

Breda gave a large grin. "I've found Jeremy Colt's brother."

"What?" Roy was instantly awake. "You found him?"

"Yes! That's what I said, isn't it?" he asked of the stirring lieutenant. She straightened up with a stifled yawn and smoothed down her uniform. "It was a little difficult, you see, 'cause they're not actually brothers. More like half-brothers."

Roy was flicking through the notes and files as if possessed. His eyes had a bright gleam to them, and they barely paused in reading, even while he spoke. "This is incredible, Breda. These are... How did you even think to use these?"

Breda shrugged humbly, yet his expression was anything but. "There wasn't much else to look at. I thought that domestic noise complaints could be useful, but I didn't realise how useful!"

Riza took a few sheets from Roy's desk and read through them with a stern expression. When she was done, she pointed at a name on the list. "This says Arthur Summers. Aren't we looking for an Arthur Colt?"

"Half-brothers," Roy repeated. "They must've had different fathers, right, Breda?"

"The reports don't go into that much detail, Colonel."

Most of the team was awake by that time, and Falman wandered over to join them at Mustang's desk. "This is him?" he asked, receiving several nods. "When do we leave?"

Roy stood with a confident smirk. "Same as before. We leave as soon as possible, using the same strategy."

"But there'll be two of them, now," Havoc piped up from his chair. His head was still down. "Shouldn't we have more men or something?"

Fuery joined in, "We could have the local police set up road blocks? Or bring Alphonse?"

"Right!" Havoc agreed enthusiastically. "Alphonse is worth three men, I'd say."

"No," Roy said, effectively shutting off all chatter. "Alphonse won't be coming on this one. We sent him back to rest, not worry. And if it turns out like the last one..."

He didn't need to say it. Everyone knew.

"B-but this won't be like last time," Fuery said with such conviction Roy himself was convinced. "We haven't got it wrong this time."

"Yeah." Havoc grinned around the cigarette in his teeth. "We'll have the chief back in no time!"

"All right, then." Roy looked around at his team, meeting each of their eyes. "We meet at 32 Seaview Road at ten-hundred hours. Just like last time."

And just like good little soldiers, they all raised their hands and snapped a salute. "Yes, sir!"

**XxX**

The house at 32 Seaview Road was almost identical to the first that Roy and Riza had searched. The garden bed was overrun with weeds—the path was invisible as a result—and the fence was a simple construction of rusted, interwoven wire. Arthur's property had a dirt path, trampled by passage to and from the street, and the gate was wide open. Roy wouldn't go as far as to call it 'welcoming', but it was more promising.

A single pair of mud-covered boots rested beside the door. They looked as though they hadn't been touched in several years, which was probably the case.

Riza's gun clicked as Roy reached for the handle, ready for any surprises. And the first began with the door: it was unlocked.

They entered carefully. The house was eerily quiet, yet showed signs of life. An empty mug of coffee or tea sat next to a threadbare couch, and an old pair of socks were balled up next to the door to what Roy guessed to be the kitchen. A messy stack of newspapers lay beneath an old table. As before, he and Riza split, but more cautiously. Roy took left, and Riza chose the kitchen.

Left led to a corridor with four branching doors. It was slightly longer than the one in Colt's house, but no more furnished. All the doors were closed, except the one at the end. The corner of a bathtub watched Roy approach, perhaps warning him to stop—he wouldn't like what he'd find.

Roy opened the first door he came across, and decided he should have listened to the bathtub.

Fullmetal slumped in the far corner of the room, eyes closed. He wore nothing more than a pair of... shorts? The word didn't seem right. It looked as if someone had made them with a large pair of dull scissors. Dried blood flaked off his skin, and for a moment, Roy thought he was dead.

And then he noticed the rest of the room.

It wasn't large, but the stain in the centre was. Dried blood coated the table, the floor, even part of the walls. It stunk, too, like something Roy couldn't identify. He started breathing through his mouth. A mattress was propped up on an angle, and Mustang wondered why Ed wasn't sitting over there—it must be more comfortable—until the boy's eyes opened and flicked over to the doorway.

They were hollow and exhausted, just like his voice. "Oh," he said, but there wasn't much emotion in it. "You're back."

Of all the things Roy had been forced to do in the military, crossing that bloody room to collect his missing subordinate was one of the worst. It rated high on the '_top ten things I never want to do again'_ chart, right up there with the Ishbalan War. The worst part was how Edward's stare followed him, and the flinch he gave when Roy touched his unharmed shoulder.

"I'm here to get you home, Fullmetal." He spoke slowly, gently, but Ed didn't appear to understand.

"They've never..." Ed's voice was horribly small, and it rasped as if the inside of his throat was made of sandpaper. "Al didn't touch me."

Roy frowned. Ed was obviously delirious. "Alphonse was here?"

"About a week ago," he answered thoughtfully, talking to the corner of the floral mattress. "He said he'd get me out then, too. But it wasn't Al."

They weren't getting anywhere, and it was making Mustang jittery. They needed to leave, but Ed couldn't walk—not without a leg. It filled him with an identifiable feeling of disgust—or perhaps guilt—but there was no other choice.

A flash of the normal Edward Elric shone through when he felt Roy lift him, but it barely lasted a second. "W-wait! What are you doing?"

His indignant voice was soon trumped by a gunshot in the lounge area. Immediately, Ed went quiet and compliant. That, coupled with the second gunshot, stunned Roy so much he forgot to move.

"Colonel!" Riza called. Her voice was steady and calm—she had it under control.

Mustang grunt and hefted Fullmetal higher. He carried him bridal-style, but with Ed's expression, the picture was more of a scared child in the arms of his parent. Something terrible must have happened.

Edward made a small noise, like a whimper, when they found Riza. At the end of her gun, one of the men from the photograph stood with his back against the wall. A briefcase lay by his feet, as if he had dropped it in a hurry. He probably had, seeing as the front door was still open.

"Jeremy Colt," Roy said in a stony voice, "I presume."

Ed buried his face into Roy's neck, maybe trying to hide. "I don't like this," he said miserably.

Jeremy glared at the bundle in Roy's arms, then glanced up to Riza again. "I'm guessing neither of you are Alphonse, are you?"

Riza's gun clicked again, and Jeremy shut up quick. Roy preferred it that way. There were already two bullet holes in the wall, and he didn't want to add a third, if he could help it.

"Edward's automail is in the bedroom on the right," Riza told Mustang, then she strode forward and efficiently cuffed Jeremy's hands behind his back. The man made no noise save for an annoyed grunt, then scowled at Roy, who immediately shifted to block the exit.

Riza returned just a few seconds later, holding a metal arm and leg, and with a blanket draped over her shoulder. She handed the blanket to Roy, easily supporting the automail appendages with one arm while the other was occupied with her gun.

"Your brother," she asked. "Where is he?"

Jeremy gave a large shrug. "I don't have a brother."

"Arthur Summers. Where is he?"

Roy had to admire his subordinate's patience. If the bastard had said that to him, he'd be nothing more than a mound of ash.

"Arthur's gone," Jeremy replied almost reluctantly. Obviously, he didn't want to answer any questions. "He went and left me this house. He won't come back."

Riza looked to Roy for permission, and he gave a slight nod. At once, she directed Jeremy out into the street and Roy followed. The sun was warming up, promising to be a nice day. Roy wasn't so sure.

"Chief!" Havoc scrambled up from the sidewalk and tossed his cigarette away. Ed's grip on Roy grew tighter. "Chief! Are you okay? You—"

"Not now, Havoc," Roy interrupted before he could start a scene. Jeremy was still crossing the road, tailed closely by the lieutenant. She directed him into the backseat of Breda and Falman's vehicle, her gun never leaving the back of his head.

Breda opened his window. "Colonel! Is he alright?"

Roy's lips thinned. "Just get that man to headquarters, Breda. Put him in a questioning cell."

"Sure, Colonel," Breda agreed, though his face clearly displayed what he wanted to do. A few seconds later, the engine started and they rattled away.

Roy turned to Havoc. "Do you know where Fuery is?"

"On his way," he said. "What happened in there?"

"Hell if I know." Roy shuddered, remembering Ed's cell. "But this whole house'll need to be sealed off as evidence. Can you organise that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you."

Just then, Fuery's car appeared. He seemed to pause and slow down as took in Ed's blanketed form, but soon recovered. The car was left idling by the footpath as he rushed out to help. Roy winced when Fuery approached and Ed's hold tightened, until it felt like he might choke.

"Colonel?"

"Come on," Roy said, voice a little strained for breath. "We'd better get him to a hospital. Soon."

Fuery nodded and ran across to open the backseat. The handle stuck, but a heavy kick fixed that. He quickly shuffled out of the way, allowing Mustang to get through.

"Let go, Fullmetal," Roy calmly requested. But while the boy flinched, he didn't budge at all. An unwilling groan escaped him and he started to shake his head, hiding it further beneath the blanket. "You have to let go. Edward. Just—"

"Why?" The question came out weak and muffled. "No. Don't wanna."

Roy glanced up at Fuery, who took a moment to understand, then hurried over to Havoc. Sighing, the colonel stared down at his subordinate. After a few long moments of nothing, a single golden eye looked back. It was so red, as if he had been crying. Maybe he had been, Roy decided, as he spotted the damp mark on his shirt. The thought tied his stomach up in knots.

"If you're not getting in the car…" he struggled to keep his voice steady beneath Ed's relentless gaze. "Then… at least tell me what happened to make you like… like this."

Edward pouted slightly, and shook his head again.

"Fullmetal—"

"I did what the colonel asked." Ed's arm was shaking. Whether it was from the strain of holding on so long, or from his week locked in _that room,_ remained a mystery. "I got the evidence. But now I'm stuck."

"Stuck?"

"He'll come back when I wake up." A fresh tear rolled down his face. Roy had no idea what to do—Fullmetal never acted like a _child_. It wasn't normal, and it scared him. "But I don't want to sleep either. Sleeping's painful." He stared imploringly at Roy, begging him to understand. "I keep seeing Alphonse, and Mother, and Nina, and _you_."

"Fullmetal, it's not—"

"Why do you keep _doing this_?" The scream, so full of distress and torment, echoed down the street and across the entire neighbourhood. Havoc dropped his hand-held radio, and Fuery's glasses threatened to jump right off his face. Roy himself had a hard time holding onto the boy, who had taken that as his cue to start struggling.

"Fullmetal!" he yelled as the blanket slipped away from his head, revealing the empty automail port and a silvery, unusual scar. "Fullmetal, stop thrashing about! You're gonna hurt yourself!"

"I-I—" There was a wild expression on Ed's face. An expression that pulled the lips away from the teeth, rolled the eyes back and forth, and drained the skin of any remaining colour. An expression that was, quite honestly, terrifying. "I've changed my mind! Let me wake up! I wanna wake up! Please! Don't make me—"

Roy had had enough.

He grabbed Ed by the roots of his dirty blond hair, ignoring the brown flakes that shed onto his gloves. "_Edward Elric!_"

The boy stopped immediately, like a trapped animal. Then he sighed, and the agitation seemed to flow out of him. The empty state that Mustang had found him in replaced it.

"Well," Edward said, completely monotone. He sounded even worse than before. "I guess it doesn't matter anyway. It'll end soon."

"Stop with that philosophical crap, Fullmetal," Roy snapped, earning another flinch. At least it was an emotion. "Just get in the car."

"It doesn't matter."

"Then do it anyway."

"But it's—"

"Pointless?" Roy offered, more than a little irritated. Slowly, he manoeuvred Ed into the seat, just as he did for Elicia when she was younger. "Tell that to Alphonse."

Edward huffed, his arm still holding tight to Roy's shirt for support. "He's not here."

Roy observed his downturned eyes for a second. Nothing he could say would lift them, so why try? Alphonse stood a better chance.

So, he disentangled himself from Ed's grasp and closed the door. Asking him to do the seatbelt up would most certainly be a wasted effort. Instead, Roy watched him the whole way to the military hospital, ignoring Fuery's questions just like Ed did. There would be time for more interrogation once they were sure Colt hadn't done any physical damage. Ed _appeared_ to be fine, but Roy was a soldier. Anything could happen in battle.

About ten minutes away from headquarters, Ed's drooping eyelids finally closed. There was no fanfare, no celebration, but a lot of relief. Getting him _in_ the car had been hard enough. Getting him out in the same state… To put it simply, that wasn't something Mustang was eager to experience.

But there was something much worse lurking in the distance. He could feel it. And it wasn't pleasant.

**XxX**

Alphonse wasn't happy.

It was one thing to exclude him from such important missions, but it was another thing to find out what was happening _afterwards_. And all he heard was:

'_Edward's in hospital_'.

That's all he stayed to listen to.

Why hadn't the colonel _said_ anything? Why hadn't _anyone_? They must have known where Edward was, and that was why he was sent home to 'rest'. They were just pushing him out of the way. But Al was sure it wouldn't take them long to realise that stopping a seven-feet-tall suit of armour wasn't easy. Especially when his brother was in danger.

"Where is he?" Al burst into the military hospital, slamming his gloves on the front desk a little harder than planned. "Where's Edward Elric?"

The soldier manning the reception recoiled so quickly his chair almost overturned. People in the waiting area started to poke their heads around the door, curious about the racket.

"The Fullmetal alchemist?" He was losing patience—and fast. Did that soldier _really_ not know who he was talking about? "Short. Blond hair?"

"Y—yeah I know who you mean," the man finally stammered, earning a sigh of relief from Al. "He came in about half an hour ago."

"Half an hour?" Al echoed. Oh, he had to be the worst little brother in the history of little brothers! But, to be fair, his tardiness wasn't entirely his fault. "What room's he staying in?"

The eavesdroppers lost interest; the show was over. Al could hear their chairs scraping as everyone returned to them, and light conversations erupted. He blocked them out.

"He's on the third floor," the soldier started to scribble directions onto a sheet of paper, but Al knew exactly where he was going. "Room 310. He should be—"

"Thanks." Alphonse was being rude, and he knew it. He just didn't care. Ignoring the half-finished directions, he bolted towards the stairs. An elbow hit the wall in his hurry, leaving a sizeable dent, and he continued. He needed to get to 310.

Finally, the plaque was in sight. The door hung slightly ajar, but not in a welcoming way. More of a '_please make up this room'_ manner. It gave off a sense of foreboding, simply because of the heavy silence within. Was his brother really in there?

He _had_ to be.

Alphonse took a few moments to compose himself, then entered the room. It was white and sterile, like every other in the hospital, with one bed and two uncomfortable chairs beside a small window. Edward lay in the bed, asleep and frowning deeply. There were two depressions where his arm and leg _should_ have been.

Roy looked up from one of the seats. "Alphonse. Was it you I heard downstairs?"

Al searched for the familiar smirk that would have normally accompanied such a statement, but none appeared. Roy was worn out, despite it only being midday, and he could barely keep his worried eyes off his subordinate. The anger that Al held started to fade away.

"Why didn't you tell me you found him?" he asked quietly, still looming in the doorway like an uninvited guest.

Roy hesitated. "He needs his sleep. We didn't want anyone—"

"Waking him up, right?" All at once, his anger returned. "Well that's okay. I'm here now and I promise not to wake him. You can leave."

"Alphonse, you—"

"No, no, it's fine." His words were sharp and clipped. "I didn't help _at all_ this morning, so let me at least do this."

Roy didn't reply. His expression was unreadable, but Al thought he had him beat. A few seconds later, the colonel silently got to his feet. "You're right," he said, doing a stiff nod. "I'll see you in a few hours. Good day."

'_Is it?_' Al had to wonder. '_Is it a good day?'_

Sure, Edward had been found and brought back, but there was something in Roy's eyes. Something Al probably didn't want to know, but had to nonetheless.

"Oh, and Alphonse?" Roy spoke when they were side by side, staring straight ahead. "If he wakes, I don't recommend being there."

"What?"

And with that final piece of advice, Mustang left.

The chair creaked when Al sat down, but it would hold his weight—he knew from experience. There was no need to worry about that. Only his brother. What would happen when he opened his eyes?

The blanket was slipping with every restless turn of Ed's head, his hospital gown following its example. Carefully, hesitantly, with Mustang's warning fresh in his mind, Al reached forward to pull them back up. On top of… whatever happened, the last thing Ed would need was a cold.

Brother always had a lot of scars. The most spectacular were those around his right shoulder and left thigh, but the rest of his body was covered in burns, puncture-marks, knife wounds… Yet Al had never seen the one on Ed's collarbone before.

It was old and quite faint, as if it had been done in childhood. The scar tissue was a pretty silvery-white, making it more prominent in certain lights. It formed a word. A name.

_FULLMETAL_.

If he could, Al would have frowned. Instead, he dropped the blanket and just stared at the scar, as if _it_ could provide him with some answers. When had Edward gotten it? Did he do it himself? The last was impossible, Al knew. His brother had a high tolerance to pain, but not that high. Carving his title into his own collarbone—and so deep as to leave a scar like that—didn't sound like Ed.

And it must have been at least a year old—how come Al hadn't noticed it before? He could almost see his chances for 'brother of the year' running out the door.

But old scars weren't important, no matter how disturbing they were. Making sure that Ed got some rest—that was his aim. And when he finally woke up—

'_I don't recommend being there.'_

—Al would be the supportive, caring brother he always strove to be. They'd get past whatever Colt did to him, and find their bodies.

That was the goal, after all.

**I hope you liked it :) Please review!**

**Now the fun part starts**


	10. The Third Sunday

_**THREE WISE MONKEYS**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here**

**39's close to 40 reviews :) and i'd feel bad leaving on such a short chapter, so here it is! Next chapter should be on Friday, but if this doesn't get many reviews I think i'll just leave this as this week's chapter. After that, next update's 1st of May :)**

**Thanks to all those who are reviewing—and to the guest who reviews every chapter! I'm sorry I've been forgetting to thank you D:**

**WARNINGS: Character death, blood, and language.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.**

_**CHAPTER TEN • The Third Sunday**_

Al wasn't sure why he had been allowed in. Maybe Mustang was feeling guilty, having forbade him from doing anything to help his brother. Edward was still asleep, much to everyone's surprise, and didn't appear to be waking for quite a while. For that reason, Al agreed to watch Jeremy Colt's interrogation.

Well, second interrogation. The first played out sometime the previous afternoon, but no one was satisfied with the answers. Alphonse wasn't sure he was ready to see the man who stole his brother. Even standing outside the room, awaiting permission, it felt surreal. Behind that door was a person who managed to overpower the Fullmetal alchemist. Behind that door was the type of monster that caused Edward Elric to fall into a coma-like state.

Al didn't know what to do. Maybe it would have been easier to stay with Ed, and read the report later. It would be impersonal, detached, and he could pretend it was just another psychopath and just another victim.

"Alphonse."

The suit of armour jolted towards Riza, eyes flaring bright with anxiety. "Yes?"

Riza's expression was grave. He knew she didn't approve of him being there. He barely did. "You can come in."

"No—you don't understand!" Jeremy was protesting. His wrists were cuffed to the table, and Al couldn't see his face. Only the back of his balding head. "That boy's not normal! Not at all! Just kill him, and you'll see what I mean! Just—"

"Jeremy," Mustang said menacingly. He dipped his head slightly to the new arrivals, acknowledging their presence. "That's not what we asked—"

"But it's what you _need_ to know!"

"And we're not…" his face screwed up in distaste, "_killing_ anyone to prove your insane point. Is that understood?"

Jeremy slumped in his chair, arms pulled taunt before him. "Yes," he grumbled.

"Good." Roy redirected his attention. "Alphonse, come over here, please."

Riza stayed by the door, closing it with a click as Alphonse left her side. The cell was small, but it seemed to stretch on forever, as if the entire area was captured in slow motion. Though he tried not to, Alphonse couldn't help his gaze straying to Colt's face, taking in the plain—if not ugly—features and bitter, downturned mouth. He looked so… _average_.

Mustang got to his feet, as close as possible to Al. "Anything on Fullmetal?" he asked quietly. Maybe he didn't want their 'guest' to hear.

Alphonse shook his head, directing his glare at the floor.

"Ah." Roy retook his seat.

Startled by the sudden interruption, Al flinched Jeremy spoke. "Are you Fullmetal's brother?"

Al didn't show any indication of having heard him.

"I've seen you two in the papers. You certainly _look_ like—"

"That's enough." Roy's voice turned their culprit to stone. Alphonse watched with something akin to curiosity as furious colour crept into the colonel's face. He'd rarely seen the man so worked up. Even in battle, when Roy's smirk abandoned him, he never lost so much composure. His hands seemed to shake, and Al thanked many false deities that Riza had taken his gloves.

It was only after a long pause that Alphonse gathered enough courage to speak. "Uh, Colonel? Is it okay if I ask some questions?"

"That's what you're here for," Roy grunted, finally looking away from Colt. "You knew that."

"Yeah, r-right—I mean, I _did_… know that… sir."

Roy sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You don't need to be so nervous, Alphonse. We're only after _this_ bastard, not you or anyone else."

That assurance didn't alleviate his worries in the slightest. "So… I can start asking?"

"Go ahead."

Surprising everyone—not least himself—Al's first question wasn't about his brother. He was sure that had already been covered to death, and there was something else that bothered him.

"The latest… kill," he began, relieved when Jeremy's gaze didn't rise from his handcuffs. "Why was it different to all the others?"

"I don't know what you mean."

Al had researched almost everything in the past week—he knew exactly what he wanted to know. "All the others had eleven wounds: ten in various places and one in their neck. And… and they were left there."

"So the last one doesn't fit the pattern." Chains clinked as Colt tapped the table. "What makes you think it was me?"

Alphonse tried his hardest to keep the waver out of his voice. Talking about death so calmly was not a regular hobby of his. "We found the murder weapon in the bathroom. It matches all the others."

Jeremy did an exaggerated shrug. "I dunno what to tell you."

"The truth would be nice," Roy muttered.

"I _did_ leave the body there. Do you want what I think?"

Alphonse nodded, hiding his nerves.

Jeremy smiled warmly, as if remembering a pleasant memory. Al shuddered to think of it.

"_I_ think—no, I _know_—that the corpse stood up, dusted itself off, and walked out the door. And do you know _why_ I know this?" Colt met Al's eye with a challenge. "Because—"

"We're not in the mood to hear your stories," Mustang cut in forcefully.

Al turned towards his brother's superior. "What stories?"

"Idiotic ones. People that come back from the dead."

"And heal," Colt added, eager to play his part, "with flashes of red light."

A homunculus? Surely, that couldn't be what he meant. A simple man such as Jeremy Colt couldn't possibly catch a homunculus—it was just too ridiculous! But he _had_ captured Edward, so maybe… maybe his story had some merit. And _that_ would mean that there was a vengeful immortal waiting for his chance to get even.

"If you don't cooperate," Mustang growled. He was seated again, both palms flat on the table, "we'll have to take extreme measures to get our answers."

"Colonel," Riza warned.

"This is a very serious matter, Lieutenant," he argued. "A soldier's lying in the hospital because of this bastard, and he has the… has the _audacity _to treat this like a game!"

"Colonel. Edward will be—"

"I know, I know." Roy waved his hand dismissively. "He's strong. But you didn't _see_…" he trailed off, evidently remembering that he and Riza had two more in their company.

'_Oh, and Alphonse? If he wakes, I don't recommend being there._'

Roy wasn't telling him something. Something big. Something important. Something that he really ought to know. Perhaps it was hard to say, or hard to hear, but Alphonse was _burning _with curiosity.

"What do you mean?" he asked, but Roy didn't reply. Instead he nodded toward the door.

"I think that's all for now," he said, though he showed no signs of moving. "Alphonse, why don't you see if Fullmetal's awake?"

"What do you _mean_?" Al persisted. "Is there something wrong with Brother? Is that why he won't wake up?"

"He _will_ wake up," Roy said firmly, and Al could almost believe that he thought that, too. "We just need to be patient."

Al made a small whining sound. He was nervous. It was _Brother_, and he didn't want to wait around. He wanted Ed awake _soon_. Within the minute, if possible.

Colt remained silent throughout the whole ordeal. There was no guilt in his manner, no regret for the suffering he had cause for so many people. But no happiness or satisfaction, either. A quiet curiosity shone from behind his eyes, as if he was wondering if he could do it again, or if the family and friends of all his victims had acted the same way. Thinking that, Alphonse had another question.

"Can I ask him something else?" he requested softly, aware that Roy had already told him to leave. He received a nod, and continued, speaking to Jeremy instead. "How did you do it?"

"Excuse me?"

"How did you..." Al hesitated. Did he really want to know? "How did you take my brother? It doesn't make sense."

Colt's mouth stretched up in a grin that sent shudders running through Al's soul. "It was easy, really. No one ever expects someone like me to be… well, _me_."

"Fullmetal did," Roy insisted. "He was in my office last Monday, trying to tell me. But there was just no evidence."

Colt's grin widened until it seemed impossible that he could still speak. "And why do you think he was so certain? I've always thought that my best weapon was surprise. It's not cowardly to kill a person from behind. It's just practical."

"It's cowardly." The sound of squeaking leather was heard as Al's gloves made fists. "Hiding that behind other words doesn't make it less true."

"I'm doing the right thing," Jeremy protested, his hands outstretched in an appeal. "Edward Elric is a sinner, that's why he lost his arm and leg! And you!" He pointed at Alphonse. "He gave you and his arm and his leg up just for some petty benefits, did he not? Well, it's my job to make sure he's punished for that."

The way he declared Edward's guilt—even if it wasn't entirely true—filled Al with rage. And the punishment? He had to leave before he punched the bastard's face.

"You know what, Colonel?" Al said with a tight voice. "I think I _will_ see if Brother's awake."

"That's a good idea." Mustang's balled fists were shaking with anger and his eyes were narrowed to dangerous slits. Perhaps Jeremy _did_ have some sense, seeing how he was shrinking as far back as was possible.

Riza shifted out of Alphonse's path and he stepped out into the passage, hearing Colt regain some of his measly courage in time to say, "I'm telling you—that boy's _not_ normal!" before Al slammed the door with a definitive _bang_! He didn't want to listen to any more.

**Please leave a review :) I'd really love to hear what you thought**


	11. The Third Tuesday

_**THREE WISE MONKEYS**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here**

**Thanks for the review, Guest! That name was so cute :D**

**Sorry for having to leave :\ I really appreciate all the feedback from last chapter :)**

_**CHAPTER ELEVEN • The Third Tuesday**_

Ed had never had a more realistic dream. It even lingered into wakefulness, so that he could almost feel as if his table, or the floor, or wherever he had fallen asleep, was soft. Perhaps the mattress against the wall had fallen, or he was leaning up against it.

But he wasn't alone, that much he knew for certain. Envy was there, watching, waiting, ready for their next session. Ed couldn't let him know that he was awake. With any luck, Envy would grow tired of standing there and leave. Half an hour, Ed guessed. Half an hour and he could open his eyes.

"—Awake yet?" The question almost made Edward frown, but he quickly schooled his features back to blankness. It sounded like… like the colonel.

"No, not yet. But he's been moving a lot more." And that was Alphonse. Ed relaxed. He was okay. He was safe.

He was still dreaming.

So he blinked, vision blurry with the usual fog of sleep. Slowly, the metallic blur hovering anxiously above his bed formed edges that jerked closer with a loud, dramatic gasp. Edward flinched away instinctively—who wouldn't, even in a dream? The steel horn jutting out of the armour's forehead was worryingly near.

"Brother!" the vision of Alphonse cried in relief. "Brother, you're awake!"

Ed regarded him sadly and nodded. How long would it take for the dream to turn sour?

"Fullmetal."

He winced. That long, apparently. Mustang walked over to stand at the foot of his bed, watching him with an expression of stern worry. It took a few moments for him to speak.

"Are you feeling better?"

There was no doubt in Ed's mind that it was a dream. He couldn't possibly be lying in hospital, and his brother couldn't possibly be with him. In less than a few minutes, Al's armour would shift, producing the monsters of nightmares, and Mustang would morph into Envy. And then Ed would wake up, ready but unwilling to face the _genuine_ Envy. The real monsters.

But he nodded, opening his mouth to say, 'Yeah, a bit better'. And no sound came out.

That didn't matter. He was dreaming.

Alphonse moved away slowly, and even without a face, Ed knew he was worried. It was woven into his body language, the way he carried himself. If the _real_ Alphonse had come to rescue him, is that what he might have looked like?

"Is there… Is there something wrong, Brother?" the metal giant asked. 'So many things', Ed wanted to reply. But he couldn't, and there was no point anyway. He simply alternated staring at Mustang and Al, knowing he wouldn't see them until the next time he fell asleep. "You're acting strange."

"Get off his back, Alphonse," Mustang berated, straightening his sleeve casually, yet Ed thought he saw a little tremor run through his hand. "He's probably not fully awake right now. Give him a while."

"Good idea," Al said in disappointment. He sat back in the hospital chair, light reflecting from his body like… like the knife.

Instantly, Ed felt his stomach seize up in fear. It was starting. The dream had ended and the nightmare was making its debut. Though he had been expecting it, Edward trembled, dreading what lay in store. He couldn't look at the _thing_ that formed a mockery of his brother, lest he be sick again. Lest he made Envy angry again.

His trembling increased to quakes, so hard that the thin sheet covering him began to flutter as if in a weak breeze. He closed his eyes tight, fighting the waves of nausea and struggling to keep his breathing steady. It was a battle he was destined to lose.

Edward gagged, tiny tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. His teeth were clenched together so hard he felt they might break, shatter, with a loud _crunch_, like a mouthful of brittle chicken bones. But the burning had reached his chest, his stomach was in turmoil, and he could already taste it.

All that came up was water. Ed didn't look, but the liquid spilt from his mouth and seared the skin of his chest. It was hot, and it smelt, and it was everywhere. Envy was going to be so mad. He wouldn't be allowed water for several _more_ weeks.

His head landed on the pillows with a thump and a groan. Ed reached up to wipe his face, only to realise that his right arm was missing. Great. Perfect. Even in a dream, he had the worst luck.

Distantly, he heard Roy say, "I'll find a nurse."

"Okay," Al replied. Unlike the colonel, he had the advantage of not being able to smell. "Should I get him up?"

"That might be a good idea."

A few seconds later, cold metal touched his back—t_he knife_—and he was forced into an upright position. It was starting. Oh, God, it was starting. And he wasn't even awake yet! What did he do? Why did _he_ have to be caught by the deranged killer? Was it because of what he did to Alphonse? It _was_, wasn't it! But it still wasn't right—he still didn't deserve it—he wanted it to end—he wanted it _all_ to end—for good…

Ed gave a small yelp and recoiled from the blade, and for a moment he was flying. But then the ground rose up to meet him. He'd never really noticed how hard it was, before.

"Brother!"

And the knife was back again, hovering in front of him, a big silver blur. He wanted to scream, to yell, to fight, but even falling off of the table was a contradiction of the rules. He didn't particularly _want_ to be punished very badly—or at all—but that wish was much too optimistic.

"Brother, just _calm down_."

The last remnants of the dream clung on to Ed, causing him to hear Al's voice in place of Envy's, and calming words instead of threats and compromises. A heavy hand landed on his leg and Ed let out a small cry, trying his best to crawl away using only one arm. He was going to be in so much trouble…

And then his head hit something hard. Not a wall, since it shifted when he knocked into it. Objects tipped from the top of what Ed understood to be a bedside table, toppling to the ground. Some things landed on him: a plastic cup, tiny clock, a notebook, and a pencil. His vision was coming back as panic subsided. If he was dreaming, then all he had to do was wake up. The notebook and pencil… if he could somehow tell his dream what was going on, it might release him.

Al's grip on his ankle loosened, and he asked in a curious tone, "What are you doing?"

Ed ignored him. Had it always been so hard to write? He only needed one sentence, but it was taking forever to move the pencil! The letters, when he made some, were shaky and erratic. Words were formed of several clusters of those unsightly scratchings, ugly and undignified. Like something _else_ Ed chose not to think about.

_'I need to wake up now'_, it read, sloping drunkenly down the page. Edward offered it up serenely, though his heart pounded. He needed to go, but that didn't mean he was happy about it. He didn't really want to return to reality. As Al deciphered the scribbled message, Ed stared at the green linoleum floor and waited for it to darken to a blood red. It never happened.

Al placed the note on the ground. "Do you really… I mean… you _are _awake, Brother."

Ed blinked at him, unsure. The tiniest flicker of hope lit up his chest, expanding it with a warm glow until he felt he could breathe again. But the ice-cold water of common sense doused the flame before it could become a fire—he knew better than anyone that the higher you go, the further there is to fall. He'd done enough of the falling.

Two new pairs of feet entered the room: Mustang, with his polished boots clacking on the floor, and a nurse wearing soft-heeled shoes. The boots stopped as he regarded how the situation had changed. Ed would have been embarrassed by his earlier behaviour, if he didn't feel like he'd be sick again. The possibility that he really _was_ in the military hospital was growing more likely by the minute.

Roy made a quiet noise in the back of his throat, which Ed would later recognise as stifled laughter. "Did something happen while I was gone? Alphonse?"

Ed noticed Al hiding the paper from view before he started to protest, "No, Colonel! Nothing, really! Brother just fell out of bed, and I was going to move him… somewhere."

"Please do it quickly," the nurse requested. She was young, with black hair tied into a tight bun. It was so strong that her face appeared to be pulled back with it, but her brown eyes sparkled with kindness despite her stern hairdo. "We need to strip the bed."

"Of course." Alphonse rushed forward and pulled Ed up. Ed's leg shook until his weight left it and his head landed on Al's shoulder with a hollow _clank_. He barely felt it. Roy shot his little brother a worried glance, obviously not liking that sound.

"Colonel Mustang," the nurse said, struggling to untuck the nearest corner. "Could you please move away from the door? Alphonse, just put Major Elric in that chair."

"He looks like he's gonna be sick again," the colonel remarked as he did what she requested. Edward couldn't protest. Ignoring his sudden inability to talk, the quick trip from Al's arms to the chair left him rather nauseous. "Are there any… buckets or something?"

The nurse glanced up and smiled. Half of the bed was bare, one side folded over the other in the same way that Mother used to wrap Ed's sandwiches. "Ask Theresa," she proposed, "at this floor's main desk. I'm sorry, I would get it for you, but…"

"It's no problem." Mustang coughed slightly, noticeably trying not to breathe through his nose. His voice sounded stuffy and congested, as if he had a cold. "Really."

"We'll have to tell Granny and Winry you're awake," Al chuckled once Roy was out. "They were here this morning, but you weren't responding. Winry was pretty upset."

Edward slouched in the hospital seat, back protesting the hard surface and strange position. The notebook and pencil lay loosely in his left hand, threatening to drop at any second. At his side, Alphonse squatted down so they were at the same height. His concerned red gaze never left Ed's face, but Ed didn't mind. Finally, he was convinced. They had found him. They had found him, and rescued him, and brought him back to hospital.

But the damage was already done. Nothing could change that.

_Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall…_

He had been alone for _so long_, with only Envy and his sharpened kitchen knife for company, and just the thought of food—not freedom, he knew not to expect that much—keeping him tethered to what little sanity remained. He was the Fullmetal alchemist. A boy. A soldier. A monster. A _toy_.

_Humpty Dumpty had a great fall…_

He was barely more than a source of amusement inside the walls of 32 Seaview Road, and nothing more than an invalid outside them. There was no middle ground. Nowhere to be happy. So what was the point? Captive or free, it didn't matter. He was too damaged.

_All the king's horses and all the king's men…_

But who cared about all that? Who would _ever_ stress the safety of a freak that couldn't die? Because there'd be no point in doing that—he would just jump up again and again and again and again… until he finally realised that he was better off cowering on the bloodstained ground.

_Couldn't put Humpty together again._

"Brother?"

Edward flinched, being pulled out of his thoughts rather abruptly. He turned towards Alphonse, hoping his expression wasn't too horrific. His mind certainly was.

"You were humming something."

The bed was completely empty. The naked mattress was plain, but Ed saw floral patterns nonetheless. He must have painted those flowers, because all their petals were crimson and brown, shaped in crude thumbprints like a child's finger painting. Ed had placed flowers just like those on the mattress in Colt's house.

"Brother, you need to talk."

Ed's lips tightened in displeasure and he shook his head violently at the bed. His fringe lay limp and dirty across his eyes, its golden colour drained of life and lustre.

**XxX**

"I mean it." Alphonse straightened his knees, looking down at his older brother in an attempt to be intimidating. Ed was acting like a child, and even though guilt promised to eat him alive, Al needed his brother to be… _normal_ again. Hell, it was only one week! While Al wasn't so naïve as to assume that it was enjoyable for Ed, the reaction was unjustifiable. No cuts, no bruises, no wounds of any kind. There had been a mild case of dehydration and starvation—and hygiene had been completely neglected!—but… Edward was different. His eyes were shadowed and guarded, filled with accusation.

_Why did you let me get taken?_ they asked, and there was no answer. So it was Alphonse's job to make sure Ed healed properly.

"Why won't you talk me?" he asked. Ed was never a morning person, but it was late afternoon! Even if he _had_ just woken up, it was about time he spoke. That stupid message he wrote just wouldn't cut it.

"Edward! Brother!" Was Ed angry with him? Did he hate him because it took Al a whole week and most of the military to find what Ed had uncovered in less than a day? And…

How had Ed done that?

"Fine, then!"

Ed made a tiny noise of panic as Al grabbed his wrist, pushing the notebook more firmly into his palm. He almost pitched off the chair, his automail port making a dent and scratching the metal frame. It rang hollowly for several more seconds, during which Al forced his brother's hand to hold the pencil as well.

"Write it down," he demanded, then jolted backwards at the wet gaze Ed threw him. "I-I mean, please write why you won't talk to me."

Edward sniffled a little as he balanced the notebook on his thigh, making Al feel horrible. He hardly ever caused his brother to _cry_—Ed was too strong for that! Not for the first time, Al decided that something was definitely wrong.

And when the word was scribed, he knew it beyond a doubt.

'_Can't_'.

The nurse entered the room, arms laden with new sheets, but Al barely noticed. Ed couldn't talk? At all? For a moment Al wondered if it was _his_ fault, if his frustration had somehow muted Ed, but the pencil was starting to speed up, spelling out new messages in wobbly letters.

'_Thirsty'_, was the first one. Then, after a conflicted pause, lead touched paper once again.

'_Scared_.'

**Hope you liked :) Next chapter'll be up 1st of May**

**Also, I'm thinking about expanding that Fullmetal Alchemist one-shot I wrote a few weeks ago. Please tell me if you think I should :)**


	12. The Third Thursday

_**THREE WISE MONKEYS**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**I'm back :D Saw snow for the first time, which was exciting**

**To the Guest—Ed experienced it as if it were several weeks because he wasn't really able to keep track of time, and he felt it was longer that it was. Thanks for the review :)**

_**CHAPTER TWELVE • The Third Thursday**_

Ed hated hospitals with a passion.

Sick patients, mourning visitors, uncomfortable beds, and people constantly wandering in and out of rooms made them smelly, confining, and noisy. Even military hospitals couldn't avoid that.

But Ed was seriously going crazy. Paper littered the floor around his bed, torn pages from his notebook, and the same word was written on all:

'_Automail_'.

Being forced to stay in hospital was bad enough, but being forced to stay in the same room… It reminded him of what he was trying to forget. Unfortunately, Ed was coming to understand that it was near impossible to obliterate three or four weeks of memories. Especially when reminders were everywhere.

He had no automail—that was the big one. He was completely immobilised and at the hospital's mercy. If they wanted him to jump off a cliff, all they'd have to do is drive him there. If his bed was set on fire, they could watch him convulse and spasm, flames and red lightning licking his bones dry. There was no way for him to escape, and he was _sure_ they realised that.

Ed traced his fingers over the scar on his collarbone again, touching every bump and line. '_F_'. What came after that? What could it possibly spell? Even after two days in the hospital, he hadn't figured it out. It was almost at the point where he'd ask someone, but every time he shied away. Alphonse would have told him, but… Ed didn't really want to see him. Something about the way his body reflected the hospital lights sent a thrill of fear down Ed's spine. And the spike on his head…

But Ed wasn't going to think about that anymore. Tuesday had been brutal—slipping in and out of reality at the drop of a pin—and Ed really didn't want to digress back to that state. He was still really jumpy and twitched at every sound, but at least the hallucinations were getting better. Envy hadn't visited for almost three hours, and there was only the mattress propped against the wall to enforce the fact that _it wasn't over yet_.

There was a knock on the door and Ed jumped in surprise, watching his unexpected visitor inch uneasily into the room.

'_Winry'._ His lips formed the words, but nothing save for a whisper of breath escaped. It was frustrating, being unable to talk, but the doctor had assured him it would most likely be temporary. He just had to get past the nightmares first.

"Edward?" she said softly, eyes wide as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing. And what _was_ she seeing? Ed had no idea—they had washed his hair a day previous, and most of the blood had been cleaned away, but with nothing more than emptiness in place of his arm and leg, he probably looked horrific.

And suddenly he understood the reason behind her expression. It was just like before. Just like his automail surgery. But unlike then, Winry held a new notebook, and her doll was nowhere to be seen. The plain shorts and shirt she wore were also much more suitable than a pretty summer dress.

Yet across her face flitted the same emotions: uncertainty, longing, anger, terror, worry, dread.

Unsure of what she wanted—perhaps they _both_ were—Ed raised his arm and attempted a smile. Not a second later, Winry darted over to his side and pulled him into a strong hug. A strange noise—a sort of _gurk_—came from Edward's throat, but he returned the embrace as best he could with one arm. Winry's face was buried in his right shoulder and her slender back trembled with the force of holding back her tears. With a little hesitation, Ed gave in and rested his own head in the crook of Winry's neck.

"I-I thought you were _dead_," she sniffled, her hold tightening at that admittance. "I thought you'd _died_! A-and when th-they wouldn't let m-me in yesterday, I-I-I—"

Winry tried to break away, but Ed didn't let her. There was so much comfort in her presence, in her warmth, that he never wanted her to leave. He held on with all his diminished strength, feeling twin tracks of heat running down his cheeks. Tears.

"I thought something had happened," Winry finished in a shaky whisper. Ed rubbed her back, hoping to show her that he was okay. It didn't matter whether he spoke truths or lies—he could barely find the crease where reality ended and immortality began.

There were no sounds beside their breaths and pounding heartbeats, but Edward felt as if they were finally coming to an understanding. He needed to stop taking so many risks. He needed to stop underestimating his opponents. Too many scars marred his soul, tearing it to shreds, since that was the only refuge for the wounds that healed too fast. Even the hand fisted in Winry shirt wasn't his own. It was a copy, a fake, and his real one was gone. It made him wonder how much of his body was truly his, and how much was no more than a grotesque imitation.

"Ed…" Winry finally succeeded in pushing him away, and he stared up at her from his pillow, curious. Her gaze flew around the room, glancing first at the small vase of flowers, then to the paper-strewn floor, to the white walls, the ceiling, the open window, and back to Ed. "Al… he told me that you c-can't talk. So I-I brought some paper, if you want it."

Edward nodded eagerly and accepted the gift without pause. The last notebook was empty, its contents covering the ground like a strange carpet. The new one was almost exactly the same: blank sheets of paper within a cheap plastic binding. But the cover he held was the colour of the sky in Risembool, not black. It was oddly calming.

He flipped it open, and on the first page, wrote, "_Thank you_'. Winry, rather than be glad her present was received with such good grace, just looked at him sadly.

"So Al was right," she said, sounding more than a little disappointed. "I thought… maybe…"

Ed huffed, scowling as he scratched out some more words. '_I'm not doing it on purpose_'.

"I know!" Winry quickly amended, visibly distressed. "I know that! It's just so… _not fair._ Why do _you_ have to lose so much? And why do we have to watch it happen?"

For several moments, only the pencil moved. '_It's not that surprising'_.

"Stop it. Stop talking… _writing_ like that!" Winry cried desperately, her hands bunching into fists. "You're just as shocked as we are! Admit it!"

'_After three weeks, I didn't—'_

Winry tore the notebook out of his grasp before he could finish, causing the last letter to end in a long, black line. Ed reached for the book and almost toppled off the bed, but Winry pushed him back. Her lips moved soundlessly and then she paused, giving Ed a long, searching look. Ed fought down the need to growl, seeing as there wasn't much else he could do to vocalise his displeasure. But Winry wasn't angry, or sad. Just confused. It was hard to get a read on her emotions, since they changed by the second.

"Ed." Slowly, she placed the notebook by his hand. "You said it was three weeks?"

The boy hesitated, put off by her tone, and then shrugged, holding up four fingers as if to say '_maybe more_'. But the way she was watching him was unnerving. Pitiful, even.

"It's only been one week."

Ed searched her honest face for some sign of a joke, but there was nothing. Either she had improved her lying ability while he was gone, or…

She was telling the truth.

One week. Did all of that really happen in just one week? But how?

The tests, the baths, the hunger, the dehydration, the embarrassment, the pain, the numbness, the dehumanisation, the humiliation, the torture, the knife…

_One week_.

It was unthinkable. In less than seven days, Ed had been reduced to… to a _pet_. He had always thought his will to be as his name—Fullmetal—but in truth it was more like a seashell. A single well-placed boot and he would shatter. And once again, he heard Envy's voice.

"Pathetic."

He turned terrified eyes towards the corner of the room, ignoring Winry's questions. As if he had always been there, Envy lifted his arm in a wave.

"Hey, Fullmetal," he greeted. "Miss me?"

Ed closed his eyes tight, willing the vision away. He _had _to leave, that damned monster. Ed couldn't… he couldn't let Winry know.

"What makes you think I'm a vision?" the homunculus asked, sounding genuinely interested. "Because that girl can't see me? She can't see _you_ either, though, can she? Not really."

_Shut up_.

"She thinks you're normal—isn't that great! Well? Are you gonna tell her, Fullmetal? If she stays with you'll she'll get hurt! And _she_ can't come back to life."

_Shut up._

"What?" Envy's face fell into one of infantile innocence, eyes wide and begging to be believed. "You _must_ have figured that out before, right? She's only human, but you…" a sinister, menacing grin pulled wider and wider, spreading to Cheshire cat proportions, "me… We're _much more_, aren't we?"

_Shut up! You bastard!_

"Am I making you angry?" While his tone was sweet and concerned, the disturbing smile never faded. "Well, Shorty? Am I?"

_Stop it. Stop talking_.

"Am I making you angry? Confused? Frustrated? _Come on_, Fullmetal!" Envy pushed off the wall, bounding forward until their noses were less than an inch apart. Ed flinched back, closing his eyes. He wasn't sure if his shaking was caused by Envy or Winry. "Give me _something_!"

_No… Stop!_

The notebook slipped from his shuddering chest, landing on the ground with a _fwap_! Winry was calling him, frantically, rocking his shoulder, softly slapping his face, but it had no effect. Like a light rain carried by the wind, her touch made no more of an impression than the tiny, lingering sparks of icy water. Sharp and shocking at first, but soon forgotten in place of more important, urgent thoughts.

And then, like the damp fog that disperses each morning, she vanished at the first sign of sunlight. The sunlight, in that case, was the heat of panic and uncertainty, burning through Ed's mind as he fought—

_—not real not here not coming not gonna hurt—_

—to calm himself, to still his trembling, and to make his problems less obvious. It was okay if they were hidden, because that made them easier to ignore. But out in the open, in front of everyone, visible to judging and pitying eyes… it would be harder to pretend that nothing was wrong.

"And there _is_ something wrong, isn't there?" Envy sneered, dancing back a step or two. "_I_ can help you figure it out, Fullmetal. You just need to say _two words_. Just two! Aren't I being generous? Though I'm sure the _prodigy child_," his lip curled distastefully, "could work out his problems without _my_ help."

Then the smirk returned in full force and Envy started to trail his fingers along Ed's leg. Even through the hospital sheets and the voices telling him _'it's not real'_, the gentle caress raised goose bumps wherever it fell. Ed bit his lip so hard it drew blood, blood that was washed away in an instant, leaving nothing behind. Like waves on a beach, the pain left only a dimple of the footprints that once resided on the sand; a dimple comprised of suffering and doubt, but nothing physical. Water filled the indentation, but it was a poor substitution for the wonderful, undisturbed peace that once blessed the coastline.

Envy squeezed Ed's ankle and then released, allowing his phantom hand to rest on the shaking joint. "You're gonna need to hurry this up, little alchemist," the homunculus said. He could have been discussing the cost increase of apples for all the emotion he exhibited. "Your friend's coming back with help. Not the _right_ help, of course, but that's to be expected."

Ed hadn't opened his eyes, but he could imagine Envy's face: teasing, self-satisfied, gloating… The monster knew that he was winning. Whatever mental stability Edward had regained over the past forty-eight hours was quickly and hurriedly unravelling.

"Humans _really are_ pathetic. You know that now, right?"

He did. Ed finally understood. It had only taken one knife. One knife, the psychotic manifestation of a human sin, and a single week to reduce him to a state that he would have previously thought absurd. But he was strong. He'd get past it. He'd rebuild the shattered remnants of his sanity, his courage, his identity, and move forward. Beyond the nightmares, the carpets of blood and broken glass, and into a future too bright to look at. It was bright with possibility.

Ed felt, rather than saw, Envy nodding. "That's right, Fullmetal. You're stronger than them. You're almost as strong as _us_."

'_Us_'. Ed had no doubt in regards to who '_us_' was. And he didn't like what Envy was implying.

"You don't have to like it." Envy laughed, leaning on the bed frame for support as joy wracked his body. "It's the truth! And what's that old saying? Oh yeah."

Cold fingers pried open Ed's eyelids, revealing gold that should have never been mined. "_It's hard to swallow_. But _swallow_, Fullmetal! Swallow, bite, tear, gnaw," each word was fire to the furnace that birthed Envy's grin, "_devour_ it until there's nothing left! You might have lost your purpose in Father's schemes, but that doesn't mean we can't find something _else_ for you to do."

Envy's image dispersed as someone ran right through him, seizing the sides of Ed's head and trying to force his gaze up. But he couldn't tear it away from the floral mattress, the only source of consistency, of stability, in a world that was steady falling to pieces.

**There are a lot of water similes in here, aren't there?**

**Please leave a review!**


	13. The Fourth Friday

_**THREE WISE MONKEYS**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**Guest: :O I didn't even think about the red water! Thank you for the review :)**

_**CHAPTER THIRTEEN • The Fourth Friday**_

"I'm surprised they let you out, Brother."

Ed grunted. Despite his blessed freedom, his mood remained as dark as a moonless night—while stars may flicker in the abyss, they couldn't illuminate the black oceans of his mind. He leant heavily on Al's forearm, unbalanced, since his automail hadn't been returned yet and he _did not_ want to be carried.

"You really gave Winry a scare yesterday," Al continued as they watched the elevator stutter to a stop in front of them. As the floor locked into place, a tiny bell sounded, _ding_, to alert them to its presence. Alphonse reached forward to open the gates, letting them swing open with the slight squeak of oiled hinges. He allowed Ed in first, and so, reluctantly, the Fullmetal alchemist edged into the space. It was a relatively new elevator—top of the range—but with a seven-foot suit of armour, room to breathe became scarce and the platform shuddered even more in protest. They descended slowly, and Edward was painfully aware of each clank of each link of chain, worried that they might snap.

"You gave us _all_ a scare."

Ed flinched in both surprise and guilt, then mentally kicked himself for being so jumpy. When had he—the People's Alchemist—become so frightened of his own shadow? Well… he _knew_ when… but why was he still on edge? He was safe. Envy was no more than a projection, a hallucination… but a _damned_ good one.

"Brother?" Alphonse prompted softly, coaxing Ed to look up into the emotionless mask. "Do you want your notebook? Do you have anything to say?"

He rocked his head from side to side, staring at the floor intently. He _hated_ the notebook, had decided that just as Alphonse offered it like an aged carer offers a pensioner their cane. Edward was a cripple—he had been for quite some time—but automail could be hidden beneath clothes and a confident attitude. The notebook was the physical manifestation of his weakness, his frailty. It forced him to admit that Envy had _damaged _him in a way that couldn't be wiped away with unnatural crimson brilliance.

When they were younger, he and Alphonse used to play a game. They used to play several games, but Ed was thinking of a certain one in particular. The 'talking game'. Whoever spoke first was the loser, and it was a tournament that led the two brothers dashing through the fields of grass, loud in their artificial silence. It would ultimately end with a young Edward Elric screaming '_Unfair! Unfair!'_ and begs for the more adept Alphonse to '_Be more easier next time_'. A game of smiles, anger, laughter, and affection.

The current 'talking game' seemed to lack most of those key emotions. And, for once, Ed was winning.

The bell on the ground floor must have been larger, for the noise it produced sounded much deeper, more melancholy. Just a few notes lower, several decibels higher, and Ed might have been listening to his own funeral bells.

Ed let his eyes wander around the foyer as Alphonse talked to the nurse at reception. There were only two other people: a boy and his mother, both dressed in their finest. The boy—no more than ten years of age—held a box in his small hands. The lid was open and military ribbons caught the light, reflecting red and blue and silver. The woman by his side had red-rimmed eyes and a large bouquet of flowers that shivered in her unsteady grip. While Ed watched, the boy held out his hand and she took it gratefully, smiling even as an anxious tear splashed onto her ebony dress.

Such was the life of the military dogs. They ended soon, surrounded by despair.

"Brother," Alphonse nudged him gently. "You're staring."

Ed gave him a vacant nod and took the volunteered crutch without much of a fuss. He didn't want it, but it was either use the support or rely on the cool, metallic arm of his brother. He knew which he preferred. The one that appeared in less of his fears.

**XxX**

Al hated everything that had happened. Equivalent exchange was making itself known, firing shots into the air, dancing wildly, like it was somehow afraid it had been forgotten. But it was a different equivalency to the one that Al followed; the new one was menacing, sadistic. For every _good_ occurrence, a disaster befell them.

They found Edward. He was in a coma for almost four days.

Winry came back from Risembool. In time to witness Ed go into shock.

Al was finally able to take his brother home. But he felt as if he were babysitting a zombie.

No. A zombie would have been more responsive.

All Edward had done since returning to the dormitory was wander into the bathroom, then stumble out, face slightly green, and collapse just beside the bed. The crutch had fallen to the floorboards with a loud clatter, pointing like an accusing finger to the room he had just vacated.

Since then, he had managed to pull himself up using the blankets and no small amount of will power. It was… nice, Al supposed, normal to see his brother acting independent again… but he wished that Ed would let him _help. _He wished that Ed would tell him what Jeremy had _done_.

It was almost as if Edward wasn't there. His body—what remained of it—lay on the bed, but his eyes were vacant and glassy. Though his chest moved, Al thought he could have been looking at a doll; a fractured puppet waiting for its next chance to frolic across the stage. But, as he was at that moment, it was difficult to imagine that the Fullmetal alchemist would ever _truly_ return.

_No._

Alphonse wouldn't let that happen. He _would_ get his brother back, and the people would have their alchemist. Though there was sometimes a light in Ed's eyes, Al had noticed that it was twisted, bent, and not at all what it should be. But he'd only been awake for two days, right? Al had to believe that he could fix it.

"Brother," he said quietly, standing at the foot of the bed. There was no indication that Ed had heard him. He simply lay on his empty shoulder, staring at the wall beside the window. It was a dark cream, almost a beige colour, and certainly not as interesting as Edward made it seem.

Alphonse tried again, debating whether to nudge Ed's foot or not. "Brother, I need to talk to you."

Golden eyes flickered towards Al and then away again. They were blank, empty of all emotion and interest, and if there was something going on behind them, Al couldn't find what. Ed's gaze had all the properties of water; whenever it tried to settle on the suit of armour, like rain it would run off and drain into metaphorical gutters.

"Brother, _please_."

Al watched in horror as his words caused Ed's face to crease, teeth bared in a mask of agony. There seemed to be more lines than his young face should carry, but Alphonse knew that each one was earned and justified. The slender leg jerked up into his chest and Ed wrapped his arm around it mechanically, as he had done when trying to use his automail at the age of eleven. His forehead and his knee kissed in greeting, effectively hiding his face, but Alphonse hadn't lost the ability to hear, nor to see. Even the most insensitive idiot would have understood…

The Fullmetal alchemist was crying again.

Alphonse had seen many tears in his past four years. The first were also Edward's as the child lay moaning and sobbing on the floor of their basement, '_Give him back, give him back_," over and over and over and over… Tears had stained the ground in a transmutation circle of their own, a human equation designed to produce sorrow, pain, pity, self-hate, or yearning out of nothing more that a few drops of salty water and raging, uncontrollable emotions.

Tears called out for comfort, for family, friends, loved ones lost in the past and hidden in the future. Hidden beneath grey stone markers, and chiselled script rapidly obscured by nature's cruel, twisting vines. Hidden until the tears became too much, until every sob tore a new hole in your chest, and until those cavities bled scarlet liquid all over the ground.

But it had been a while since Al had last seen Edward cry. Each time burned his memory until he was unable to forget it, and this one was already promising to singe the entire tapestry of his mind, simply because Alphonse had no idea of what to do.

Trying to be quiet, Al headed over to Ed's side. But, being as it was, the body that Edward had chosen for him didn't have that capability. His first foot landed with a loud _clunk_! and _screech_! as metal slid together. Ed froze immediately, like a small child waiting for their parent to deliver the first blow.

Something was broken, it was easy to see, and alchemy wouldn't repair the damage.

"Brother." Al's voice was almost a whisper, echoing strangely inside his armour. "Ed, please look at me."

Hair, loose about his shoulders, knotted around itself as Edward rubbed his face further into the pillow, letting out a high whine. His arm released, travelling upwards to clamp itself around his ear, and he continued to shake his head.

Maybe… Al was coming to realise, Ed wasn't hearing _him_. But a quick glance around the room proved that there was no one else.

"Ed." Al's hand completely dwarfed his brother, gently shaking his shoulder. The keening cry only grew louder. "Brother, please. Just look at me. _Please_. I can… I can… I can _help_, if you let me know what's wrong. _Brother, please_."

Edward's eyes were wide open and unblinking, watering madly and sending trails of moisture running into the dampening pillow. Red surrounded gold like a fiery sunset, but Al had never seen one quite so distressing. No one ever mourned the passing of the sun, knowing it would reappear each morning. Yet it was hard to find any optimism while watching twin suns vanish beneath clouds of unreality.

Insanity.

Ed needed to go back to the hospital, but even in his current condition, Alphonse knew he would never agree. "_I'm fine,_" he would insist even while eyes darted to nothing. But lacking the ability to verbalise his assurances, they would undoubtedly fall flat. "_I'm fine_," was the biggest lie that Edward could write.

But then Ed let out a loud, wet sigh and turned his vacant, bloodshot gaze to Al. The sight might have sent shudders running down his spine, if past events had gone a little differently. As it was, Al's armour rattled, quickly and quietly, under the scrutiny.

It was creepy. It wasn't like Ed.

Alphonse had to steel his will in order to stay standing, even as Ed held out a hand and… _fear_ flitted over the older brother's expression. But fear of what, exactly? Surely, it… it couldn't be Al, could it?

Ed broke him out of his thoughts, miming a pencil in what could almost be called an impatient manner. He wanted to say something. Alphonse silently handed over the notebook and Edward shuffled to get into a better position. Soon, his hand was outstretched for the pencil again.

When he had all he needed, Ed's focus drifted over to some empty space next to the window, as if he were waiting for reprimand or permission. Eventually, the blunt tip of the pencil prodded paper and the first letter was formed. Al knew that left wasn't Ed's preferred hand, but he seemed even more uncoordinated than usual. Times had changed, and they had learnt to adapt, and Ed wrote with his left to compensate for that. Al had always admired the skill and effort it had taken to teach what was essentially no more than an extra to perform fine motor skills such as writing, so to see it had all disappeared was disheartening to say the least. It took Ed almost three minutes to craft a sentence that may have previously required no more than thirty seconds.

'_We should talk_.'

Al looked from the notebook to his brother, noticing how Ed wouldn't meet his gaze. "What about?"

Another glance, another search for allowance from a being made out of not-so-pure oxygen and carbon dioxide, heralded the beginning of a new, painfully slow reply.

'_Whatever you want_.'

It was so unexpected, so unanticipated, that Al found himself stumped. All the questions that had once cluttered his head gave one last_ hurrah!_ and fled. Not a single one—not even so much as a whisper—remained. Emptiness as black and as riddled with holes as the dark side of the moon filled the space inside his helmet, occupying it with a loneliness felt only by the desolate. And Al's head was desolate of thought.

Edward cocked his head to the side, and he did an almost-imperceptible nod. The end of the pencil tapped his message once, twice, thrice, impatiently. A shallow frown marred his brow as annoyance increased.

"I…" Al trailed off, looking at Ed's calmly waiting face. "Brother… I-I don't know… A-any question?"

A second nod.

"Then…" If Al had lips, he would have been licking them nervously. "I guess I have a few… like… Are you fe-feeling better? Than yesterday?"

Edward raised an eyebrow, as if to say: _Is that really the best you've got?_ Then he inclined his head again, after casting another glance to the wall, and all emotion left his face. Al almost sighed with frustration.

When would he get his brother back?

The curiosity was eating him alive from the inside out. Alphonse was sure that, if he dared open his armour, he would find the interior corroded and rusty—a visual transcription of his worry. A question… that was all he needed. And he had one. He had a question, but… he wasn't sure if he wanted the answer.

The fire in his eyes dimmed as his soul resigned itself to be hurt. Whether Edward spoke truths or lies, Al was sure it would be damaging.

"What happened to you, Brother?" he finally managed to blurt out. "What did Jeremy _do_ to you?"

'_Nothing, really_.

Al really wanted to grit his teeth. It was so frustrating! Edward was right there, but it was as if his mind had never truly left 32 Seaview Road, and that scared Al. What horrors could leave such profound scars on the psych, but not the body? Was a remnant of that horror lurking behind Al, beside the window, telling his brother what to say? What to write?

"I mean it, Edward!" Al felt Ed's flinch pull deep at some dark corner of his soul, but he didn't let it deter him. "Tell me what happened, or… Or I'll ask Jeremy Colt!"

That got Ed's attention. For a second, Al fancied that he could hear whatever hallucination was taunting the Fullmetal alchemist. It was laughing.

The pencil moved faster than before, scrawling nonsense letters into the notebook. '_Where is he?_'

Dread filled the cavities inside Al's armour; so potent it became solid and froze his limbs in place. He'd made a mistake. A big one. The expression on Edward's pale face told him as much. It was a mixture of determination and terror; a glimpse of the old Fullmetal, but somehow tainted. Rotten. Eroded.

An impatient finger stabbed at the message, terrified golden eyes wondering why Alphonse just _wouldn't answer_. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, then there was an almost permanent confusion saturating the vital entity. Like a damp layer of mould, slowly growing, creeping, devouring every shred of Al's brother before leaping out to consume family, friends, colleagues… Everyone.

"I-I don't know," Al lied. He never was a very good liar. Even lacking a face in which to turn red, or a mouth with which to twist in a mockery of a smile—a smile that clearly read, _'I'm lying_'—he couldn't do it. Not to Edward. He could always call him out. "He… We didn't catch him. H-he was gone when we found you."

Ed stared at him for so long that Al was _certain_ he knew what was coming. A scribbled "_Tell me the truth_', or _'Stop lying to me_'. Alphonse felt dirty, contaminated. He was a fraud—a storyteller of the worst kind—and Ed must have known. Why else would he be watching him so intently?

But the note contained only four simple letters. Four simple letters than somehow managed to scare Alphonse even worse than his imagined scenarios.

_'__Good_'.

**XxX**

Edward couldn't sleep.

Rather, it would be more accurate to say that he didn't _want_ to sleep. In his dreams lurked fears, memories, words he couldn't understand. And loud. So loud they blocked out all rational thought, morphing his once-prodigious mind into a cacophony of noise and colour. One colour: red. There were so many shades…

But there was one thing that wouldn't leave despite—or perhaps because of—his temporary insomnia. _Envy_. And Ed _knew_—he _knew_ that the monster… the homunculus wasn't real. Hallucinations. Dreams. Nightmares. Reality. All were one and the same where Envy was concerned. There were two pairs of eyes settled over Ed as he 'slept', and while one was familiar in a vaguely comforting way, neither were truly human. Edward had taken the physical aspects of his brother's humanity. Maybe _he_—the Fullmetal alchemist—was the real monster.

He wanted Al to leave. Moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, turning the armour into _that_. It was so obvious during the day, when the sun's rays illuminated just about everything but Ed's thoughts, yet he hadn't expected the moon to be so… _potent_. Had Alphonse always shined so brightly?

But there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe one day, when he managed to put the past _week_ behind him, Ed might be able to focus once more on his brother. He was being selfish, and he knew that, but… getting their bodies back was an impossible task. Failure lurked just around the corner, grinning its white-toothed grin.

Worry churned his stomach. Worry and guilt joining as one to make him ill both mentally _and_ physically. Al was _too bright. Too bright_. Too bright… And always awake. Always watching over his older brother. Caring, protecting, _smothering_.

Ed rolled around, put his back to the window, and hoped that Alphonse hadn't seen the spasm that had passed over his face. Neither of them _wanted_ to hurt each other—it was unintentional!—but it happened nonetheless.

"You're just causing problems for everyone, Fullmetal."

Envy detached from the shadows, their thin tendrils holding onto his face, hair, chest, like grasping hands. _Like the Gate._ A half-clad hand rested comfortably on a slender hip, reminiscent of a deadly spider waiting to pounce. Kill. But Edward wasn't afraid of death. No. The thrill of terror that raced up his spine was one of remembered pain and uncertainty. It was caused by the knowledge that—no matter what he might try—_it would never end_. His life would go on while others ran their course and withered. His hair would stay that signature gold _forever_, even once everyone he knew hosted grey strands above their wrinkled faces. He wasn't—

"Human," Envy drawled, stretching out the accursed word to accommodate for both sarcasm and contempt in the two syllables. One corner of his large mouth climbed into a cocky smirk. "If you're not _human_, Fullmetal shorty, then what _else_ could you be? Hmm?"

_A monster—_

_A freak—_

_An immortal—_

_A demon—_

_A…_

"Homunculus?"

Suddenly, Envy was all Ed could see. His sharp violet eyes capered with maniacal glee and his nose brushed against Ed's with all the force of a feather alighting the pavement. If either had deigned to breathe, they would have felt it instantly. But they were caught in a permanent homeostasis, locked in the moment by delight and panic, respectively.

Oh, how Ed wanted to move. His stomach churned as if home to an agitated nest of snakes, sending bile up to burn his throat. But Alphonse was behind him and Envy was in front. And without his arm or leg…

_Trapped._

"That's right, Fullmetal," Envy sneered. "You wouldn't want precious _Alphonse_ to know what you've become. But he's gonna find out anyway—there's no way around it! Who the hell knows if that pile of junk can age, but…" Envy paused just long enough for dread to suffocate Ed into an even more complete silence. He wasn't breathing. "He's gonna notice when you stay fifteen forever."

_Homunculus…_

Like the reattachment of his automail, everything slammed into place with a force that gritted his teeth together and bloomed small tears at the corners of his eyes. So obvious. Too obvious. He was an idiot for not seeing it before. The red lightning was familiar in the worst way possible; it was the light of a corrupt transmutation. The Philosopher's Stone. Homunculi, incomplete attempts at life, were barely more than planned mistakes. An oxymoron of existence—a sentient being without their own soul. Without a conscious.

And now Edward was one.

Envy pulled back, perhaps sensing how close Ed was to spitting up his dinner of toast and water. The older homunculus crouched in the shadow beside the bed, slim muscles highlighted in profile by the moon. His eyes were a mismatch of darkness and luminosity, revealing, Ed thought vaguely, the only two personalities the sin appeared to have. A dark, burning hatred, and a light that matched his malicious, insane grin. The light most likely had come from all of the homes he had burnt to the ground.

"You're a homunculus now, Pipsqueak," Envy said in a loud whisper, possibly to hide the unholy words from listening ears. Though who would be eavesdropping on the hallucination of a madman, Ed couldn't say for sure. At least he _knew_ it wasn't real… Even if the answers were. "Like it or not, you're one of us. This is gonna disrupt our plans, Fullmetal, so I hope you're happy! But even if you can't be useful, at least you can be our _plaything_."

Edward barely registered moving.

There was a worrisome blank in his already fragile mind, causing him to experience the next events as if he were flicking through a bleak photo album. Keeling off the bed. Getting tangled in his bed sheets. Kicking them off frantically with his one leg. Clawing towards the bathroom. Heavy hands on his shoulders. Being pulled back. And finally, a burning version of what may have been toast re-emerged.

Ed sat in the puddle of his own sick, shaking violently, and supported only by Alphonse's steady hold. His hand clawed desperately at the empty port in his thigh, blunt nails producing a rapid _scritch, scritch _on the metal. It birthed an unwanted sense if déjà vu, bleaching the night-soaked walls to a stark, clinical white. He hated hospitals.

"Brother? Brother! Are you alright?"

Ed nodded, though he hardly heard the question through the pounding in his ears. Fake blood, fuelled by the Stone inside his chest. How had it gotten there? _How could he get it out?_ He wasn't sure that the shell he inhabited was even his own body. It was just an amalgamation of false cells, bonded around a core of twisted vines of muscles, all formed of the same… same… same _wrongness_. Stone had encompassed his heart some time before—most likely in that fateful pub _so long ago_—and each death had bound it tighter, tighter,_ tighter_, until it cut off the erratic beats and cut off his _humanity_.

_Homunculus._

_Homunculus._

_Homunculus._

_Homunculus._

_Homunculus!_

Dreadful monsters, horrible unliving creatures. Hearts of Stone and souls of many, though neither were their real hearts, their real souls.

_Fake_. Edward was a fake.

He heaved again, but all that escaped his mouth was a thick stream of clear, gloopy liquid. That was fake, too. It all was. Himself especially. He was a mockery of Edward Elric, an unintentional imposter. Maybe the reason he felt so uncomfortable in his brother's arms was… Ed wasn't really his brother.

**Did you like it? Please leave a review of what you think!**


	14. The Fourth Sunday

_**THREE WISE MONKEYS**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**I've changed the summary. Is it better? Thank you to everyone who reviewed :) and especially notabot—who I can't PM! Thank you**

**I hope you like this chapter :)**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.**

**_CHAPTER FOURTEEN • The Fourth Sunday_**

Al honestly didn't know who he expected to be knocking on the dormitory door at nine in the morning. Yet when Winry shouldered her way through, closely followed by Pinako, he wondered how it could possibly be anyone else.

"Eugh," Winry groaned, lifting her free arm to cover her wrinkled nose. "Al! It _stinks_ in here! Didn't you use the candle I bought for you?"

"Of course," Al rushed to assure her as she dumped her bundle on the ground with a loud, heavy _clank._ "B-Brother just… He didn't like the smell, and…"

That was _technically _the truth—just not all of it. Al had lit the candle soon after Winry left the previous day, sure, but it had only _stayed _lit for a total of two minutes. That was how long it took Edward to manoeuvre himself over to the nightstand and blow it out, writing '_It smells like rose vomit now_' before he pulled the blankets back over his head.

It was the only thing he'd 'said' since Friday night.

"And does that pipsqueak really think _this_ is any better?" Pinako asked, striding into the room. A large toolbox weighed down her left arm, throwing off her balance and creating a slight limp. "Alphonse, at least open a window. _You_ might not have a sense of smell, but we do. Tell your brother if he wants his automail back, he'll need us to help."

An indignant, blond head protruded from the Ed-shaped lump on the bed, glaring daggers at the unanticipated guests. Just from the annoyed tilt of his eyebrows, Al knew the older was pouting. Well, at least it was an emotion…

"Oh, stop with that attitude, Ed," Pinako reprimanded as she tossed her burden onto the bed, narrowly missing his foot. "Do you want us to fix you or not?"

The blankets flew up once more, covering his face for hardly an instant before he pulled them off again, letting loose a loud groan as he did so. Ed looked tired. Dark rings encircled his unusual eyes, making the rest of his complexion seem paler than it really was. Cracked lips parted as if to form words—words that no one else could hear nor understand. Tired wasn't the right description… Ed was _exhausted_.

Al hurried over to help Ed sit upright, unable to ignore that—no matter _what_ he did—Ed just wouldn't look at him. It hurt almost as much as the search to find him had, never knowing for sure whether he was still alive. Edward _was_ there, hunched over on the edge of the bed, and yet… it _wasn't_ him.

It couldn't be.

Ed was a child of sunlight and gold, home to a passion for life as strong as the midday sun. This creature—_no,_ it was _him, dammit!_—had none of that. The sunlight was hidden behind a heavy cloud, and the gold of his hair and eyes had faded to a dull brass, weathered by the unkind years. But it _was_ Edward! It had to be! What else could adopt such a strong likeness?

"Al."

The armour shifted to gaze down into anxious blue eyes. Winry tossed a glance over to Ed—who appeared to be listening attentively to _more_ empty space—before nodding towards the bathroom.

"I wanna talk to you," she said.

The bathroom was the only semi-private room in the entire dormitory, given how small it was. Comfort and isolation weren't high on their priorities when Ed and Al had purchased the tiny living space. The walls were thin, the floorboards often creaked, and the kitchen tap leaked constantly, but it was convenient, and convenience was important in an emergency. _Most_ emergencies.

For a moment, though, Al was unsure if both he and Winry would fit in the bathroom. He rarely went in there—what was the point?—so its cramped walls were _surprisingly_ near to his shoulder plates. Winry had to weave around his arm to find a place to stand—beneath the shower head, unused since Friday night—once the door had been closed. Her mouth was a thin line, and a black smudge of grease lay over it like a child's attempt at makeup. Grimness radiated from Winry as if it was a disease—and maybe it was. Alphonse also felt that their situation was incredibly bleak.

"So?" Winry started as she folded her arms. "Has anything happened?"

Al shook his head, giving a discouraged sigh. "He still won't talk to me."

Her face fell into an expression of pity. "Still?"

"Still."

"Ugh." Winry let her head slump back to thump against the tiled surface. Just outside, they could hear Pinako reprimanding Ed for something. "He's more trouble than he's worth, isn't he? We should just leave him in… in the middle of some desert somewhere. Maybe that would teach him some sense."

Al shifted uncomfortably. "I-I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Of _course_ not." Winry frowned in irritation. "It was a joke, Al. That idiot wouldn't survive a minute without you. Just look at what happened! And did you _see_ the state of his automail? I almost had to throw it away as scrap metal!"

Despite the heaviness of the situation, Al found himself chuckling. In the tiny bathroom, listening to Winry and Pinako ranting, he couldn't help but feel… encouraged? It seemed like a fairly optimistic word, though, and he wasn't sure whether he wanted to use it. But what other adjective could he employ? Happy? No way. Despairing? He… wasn't quite at that point. Maybe soon, if Ed maintained his silence, but not yet.

Ed would get better.

"Winry!"

Both Al and Winry jumped, Al's arm upsetting a plastic cup lying beside the sink. Pinako stuck her head in just as it lost its fight against gravity, toppling to the tiled floor and spreading its insides in a small puddle. She spared the spilt drink less than a glance before tugging the door open.

"What're you doing in here?" she asked brusquely. A few strands of hair had escaped her bun and her cheeks were slightly flushed. Al had to wonder what Ed had done. "Come on, Winry! Hurry up—we have a patient! And a rather disagreeable one, at that."

A sock flew over Pinako's shoulder, landing on Al's breastplate with a soft _thud_. The shrunken woman spun around, fixing Ed with a steely glare.

"Don't do that again, Edward!" she scolded, a single gnarled finger pointed threateningly. Ed simply rolled his eyes and fell back onto the mattress. Though they couldn't see his face, Al noticed Ed's bare toes wiggling, and knew that he hadn't quite given up.

Winry rapped on Al's helmet, evoking a metallic ringing noise that reminded him of a church bell. "Let me past," she said, already trying to squeeze around but prevented by the shallow puddle.

"Ah, sure."

Shuffling and the grind of metal on metal led them back to Ed's side. He glowered stubbornly at Winry and Pinako from his horizontal position. Pinako rested her hands on her hips and met his glare bravely.

"Sit up, shrimp."

It was more than slightly unnerving when Edward stayed silent at that remark. He didn't move at all, though his face coloured just a degree. Then, he seemed to slump even further into the bed, resignation swallowing his entire body. With a small kick, Ed teetered into an upright position.

Pinako patted the port in his thigh and looked to Winry. "D'you think he's ready?"

Ed pulled away from her touch angrily, jerking his head in what may have been a nod. Though he had seen it done many times, Al felt like an outsider. An intruder. It was fairly obvious that Ed didn't want him there—he hadn't even acknowledged his presence past a quick, furtive glance—but… well, it was his responsibility, wasn't it? As the younger brother? He needed to be there in case _he_ was needed in turn.

But that assurance didn't help him feel any less redundant.

Winry unwrapped the metal limbs and gently placed them on the bed. An indent formed around them, blankets straining from the stress of the added weight. She looked, Al thought, almost nervous. Her teeth were tightly clamped on her lower lip, and her eyes never strayed from the automail. It wasn't difficult to understand her apprehension; Ed was rarely so uncooperative, and he was _never_ so quiet. It created quite the somber atmosphere, as if they were not _giving_ Ed new freedom, but taking it away.

Al tensed as his brother forcibly relaxed, the automail lined up against the vacant ports. Ed's hand knotted in the looser sheets, clenching and releasing along with his erratic breaths as the countdown started:

"Three, two, o—"

Ed burst off the mattress, as if to run, and fell to the ground like a child's broken toy. The following cries of "Ed!" and "Brother!" weren't heard above the frantic gasps and whines surrounding his crumpled form. When Winry reached for his shoulder, Ed jerked back, pushing himself away with his single foot. His back hit the wall beside the bathroom door and he somehow pulled himself into an upright position, grasping and clawing at the thin material above his chest, as if the dislodge something. But while his grappling fingers grabbed at nothing _tangible_, the panicked, feral attacks never stopped.

The shock broke with the sound of tearing fabric as Ed ripped through it and jagged nails went to work on his skin instead. Before he could draw blood—but not fast enough to prevent angry red welts—Winry jerked forward. Her slender arms attempted to embrace him, perhaps in an effort to calm him down, but all she received was a harsh knock to the underside of her chin. Instead, she restrained his wrist. It would never have worked if Ed had all of his limbs—and granted, it didn't seem to be working even _without_ half of them—but Al supposed that adrenaline leant Winry some of her strength.

That's right: strength. Alphonse was strong. He could, no… He _needed_ to help!

But when Al stepped closer, Ed's terrified, unseeing eyes caught him and the whining turned to a _scream_. It was rapidly cut off by his own head thudding into the wall behind him, and so Winry had _two_ things to worry about.

"Granny!" Winry yelled, trying her hardest to keep Ed immobile as _he_ tried his hardest to crack his skull open. "Bring something!"

"I am!" Pinako bellowed in reply as she riffled through their bag. "Cover his eyes!"

Winry didn't have enough hands. She abandoned Ed's, the nails immediately dragging down his chest again. Swearing uncharacteristically, Winry wrapped her entire arm around Edward's head and seized his wrist. Reflexively, his leg kicked out, missing Pinako by less than a couple of inches.

Pinako reached around Winry, the needle in her grip jolting with each of Ed's desperate movements. But finally, her wrinkled face pulled tight with strain, she wrestled the point into his upper arm. At the intrusion, Ed stiffened, his uncovered mouth opening in a gasp.

"I-is he okay now?" Alphonse asked hesitantly. Watching how Winry and Pinako dealt with his brother, he knew he really _was_ useless. He'd allowed Ed to hurt himself, just because of indecisiveness, and… he still didn't know what he was doing.

Pinako stood after a few moments, the needle held loosely by her thigh. She sighed, dragging a wrist across her forehead in an effort to appear unruffled. But Al saw her fingers shaking. "Yeah," she muttered. "He'll be alright. You can let him go, Winry."

The girl did so hesitantly, though there was little need to be worried. Unless the blank, unthinking eyes that her arm uncovered counted as a reason. Edward's mouth was slightly ajar, and tears were beginning to well along the base of his eyes from the lack of blinking. He looked like he had that first day in the hospital, Alphonse admitted; like all the life had been sucked out of his small body.

"Well," Pinako said abruptly, knocking Al's shoulder hard enough for it to produce a loud _clang!_ "We have about half an hour to get this automail on him. You ready?"

Winry looked up from her crouched position, face alight with shock. "Granny!" she exclaimed. "We can't put it on him now! Just look what happened!"

"The idiot's basically asleep now." Pinako didn't even have to duck to get around Alphonse. The metal leg she reappeared with was almost as tall as her, and no doubt just as heavy. "We might not have another chance, so just _do it_, Winry."

Alphonse had to glance away when Winry switched her imploring gaze to him. Within his armour waged a war like no other: should he listen to his granny or his brother? Logic screamed for his granny—she was so wise, so unexpectedly kind, and _she_ would know what to do!—but Ed looked as if he could break. Again.

He was just about to agree with Winry when a loud voice cut him off.

"Alphonse!" Pinako snapped, brows drawn together in a tight frown. "If you want your brother to get back on his feet, he needs _two_. And Winry!" She turned her attention to her granddaughter, leaving Al shaking in his metal boots. "I don't _care_ what you think is best! This isn't Edward anymore—it's a _patient. _Do you understand?"

Winry flinched, but didn't reply.

"Good." Pinako tossed the automail to the floor, uncaring of where it went or the scratch it carved in the worn wood. "You take that one. I'll do the arm."

The automail clicked into place, but aside from a quick wince, Edward's expression didn't show any emotion. Even after he was left alone, lying on the floor with both palms facing upwards, he retained a statue-like degree of motion. Perhaps a figure encased in ice? Neither dead nor alive, but something in between.

Al had to get him back.

**XxX**

He was…

He was _floating_.

Eyes were open, but blind. The darkness was so beautiful; black and charcoal grey swirling in chaotic, organised patterns, around and around and around and around—

Ed was letting his mind wander, unhindered. The delightful drops of ink in ebony water ground to a halt, slowly gathering into a superfluous warning:

_Dangerous_.

He knew it was dangerous. He was smart—the youngest to ever join the military! He was a prodigy. A genius. Anything new was dangerous, unnatural, but… it was strangely calming at the same time. The thought of encountering something unknown was _fascinating_, and he wasn't going to give it up just because of some tiresome _foreboding_.

But already his cloud of calm was evaporating in the heat of the sun. The shadows clumped together to form hands, desperately trying to shield his eyes from the offensive light of day. Of _life_. As the dark fingers tore away, scratching at the delicacy of his mind, Ed wished them back. The blurred, bright scene ahead of him was too… too _real_. He wasn't ready for it.

Not yet.

He wasn't ready for the addition of sound, either. It was like watching a silent film—something he had always wanted to do—and being startled by another's loud cough. It was _unexpected._

"—rry, Alphonse." Winry didn't seem to notice Ed's return to reality. Even _he_ was struggling, blinking slowly in an effort to quell the disorientation. "If anything happens with Ed—good or bad—make sure… make sure to tell me, alright?"

Ed couldn't see his brother, but heard his affirmative reply nonetheless.

And then Winry was looking at him, and Ed dared not breathe, lest she notice his semi-alertness. But no flicker of recognition or relief ran across her face. It remained solemn and discontent, as if she might break down any second. Ed wondered why she hadn't already, since keeping her tears in check seemed to cause almost physical pain.

Winry hefted her toolbox up easily, though the thing must have weighed a substantial amount. It was like that saying: '_practice makes perfect_'. And Ed knew that Winry would expect nothing less of herself.

"Bye, Al," she murmured from the doorway. Edward could understand from her reluctant voice that there was _so much more_ she wanted to say. The quiet farewell she then gave him didn't even touch upon her thoughts.

Winry closed the door. There was a long, drawn-out beat of near-silence before Alphonse let out a startled gasp.

"Brother!" He quickly moved into Ed's line of sight, metal glinting in the late morning light intruding through the window. "You're awake!"

Just those few words stirred up a great feeling of unease in Ed's already turbulent mind. Among all the other problems, a new one had awakened. He didn't remember falling asleep. Fighting—_that's_ what he was doing. He was always fighting. It was a part of his job… but why was he struggling against _Winry_, of all people? And _why had he fallen asleep?_

"They shot you with some stuff," Envy offered from the far corner. His face was partially obscured by the sunlight, giving him an ironic mockery of a halo. "Like an injection."

Ed felt the blood drain from his face. They had given him an injection? He _hated_ needles—hated losing his control. H-hated sharp, pointy, metallic _things_. He hated Envy, Colt, Mustang, Granny, Winry… Al. Everyone who had seen him _so weak_—even those who showed no contempt—they were laughing at him.

_Oh, look at the Fullmetal alchemist! How the mighty have fallen!_

"Brother?" Alphonse repeated, sounding quite hesitant. But when Ed twisted to look into his glowing red eyes, he didn't see his younger sibling.

Black irises, glowing only with the glee contained within, stared at him from above an excited smile. It was a gaunt profile, with sharpened cheekbones—_sharp like knives_—and pale countenance, as if the man who watched him had been resurrected from beyond the grave. If Ed focused, he could even _smell_ the stench of death, thick in the air.

But the ghostly apparition struck no terror in comparison to the blade dangling loosely beside his folded knees. The thin-lipped mouth opened in a leer, saying,

"Brother? Brother, are you okay?"

Envy cackled, hair waving about from the force of his mirth.

"Can you hear me?"

Colt reached forward jerkily, his bony fingers coming closer and closer… It wasn't perfect, but someone had done it. Human transmutation. Because Ed had no doubts that Envy had killed the character named Jeremy Colt, yet there he was, ready to play his part, and take over the stage once again.

And how was that equivalent exchange? Ed and Al, who had spent _so long_ studying and training, lost everything when they tried to bring back a woman who was _kind_, _loving_. All they gained from that was a shuddering mess of organs and a soundtrack for their nightmares.

Yet that man… a twisted _beast_ of a human, was allowed to return—

"Brother, snap out of it!"

—was allowed to find him. It was that, if nothing else, that convinced Edward that the Gate really _did_ seek to devour his sanity.

If so, it had it.

He was done. Finished. It was a valiant effort, he was sure. Not one worthy of the Fullmetal alchemist, but he was barely Edward Elric anymore. He was just… Fullmetal. The name carved in his collarbone. He knew it was '_Fullmetal'_, though he couldn't say how. But that wasn't important. It was his brand, his title, the curse he adopted at the tender age of twelve.

Colt lurched forward, blade pointed straight ahead. It pierced Ed's chest, icy fingers scrambling towards his heart, chattering in a thousand exuberant voices.

"_Brother_… _Brother… Edward…"_

Not his name. Not anymore. He didn't deserve it. A numbness was spreading throughout the top of his body as his heart found itself obstructed. He was gonna die—again—and Al…

Al.

Ed blinked, closing his eyes for as long as it took for his breathing to go back to normal. The pain faded, though there was no accompaniment of red light. It just… left. All that remained of his hallucination was the shadowed figure opposite. Ed was starting to wonder if Envy would _ever_ leave.

Al's glove was on Ed's shoulder, the source of the strange, deadened sensation. Al probably didn't realise how hard he was holding him. Ed glanced upwards, but couldn't keep his gaze for fear that too much concentration would birth another vision. Just the sight of all that metal made him uneasy.

"Brother?" Alphonse urged softly, most likely noticing the change in behaviour. "Did… something happen?"

Ed didn't react. Suffering beneath the stares of both Envy and his brother, he shakily got to his feet. _Feet_, plural. Gleaming steel surrounded him on all sides, disorientating him and causing him to stumble back against the wall, a headache pounding in his temples. To his great surprise—and relief—Alphonse didn't try to give any help. Ed heard his armour clanking, as if he had gone to step forward and stopped himself, but only the wall let him stand upright. Al didn't say a single word as Edward staggered over to the bed. After a few moments of uncertainty, the blankets flew upwards and hid the boy beneath.

In his cave of pale blue sheets, Edward clenched his eyes shut and tried to ignore the cool touch of automail on his skin. When did he _ever_ say he wanted it back? Well… he had. Profusely. But he hadn't understood what that meant! He needed… I-it…

A hand reached out of his warm cove, feeling along the bedside table. A lamp, empty glass… pencil and notebook. He retrieved the last two items hastily and scribbled down his request with just as much speed. But then he was stuck. To 'deliver' the note, he'd have to leave the safety surrounding him.

No, Ed steeled himself. He had been the Fullmetal alchemist, once upon a time, and he hadn't lost _that much_ of that past character. If he had… maybe faking it could convince himself that he wasn't completely different. He was _brave_, he was _strong_, he could beat the Gate at its own game.

He could push the thin piece of paper onto the ground.

And so he did. Alphonse made a noise of relief when he noticed the movement, but went worryingly silent as he read. With his vision effectively cut off, Ed relied on his hearing to locate his brother. But unlike most _other_ soul-filled creatures, his brother didn't _need_ to make any noise. The most accurate that Ed could guess was some place to his left, where he'd dropped the note.

Then another fear entered his mind. What if Al refused? It was a strange request, Ed admitted. He'd never asked anything like it before, and it made him feel like an invalid. A young child, unable to fend for himself.

"But you're a homunculus now," Envy commented in a bored tone. Ed imagined him lounging against the windowsill, watching the pathetic lump hidden beneath blankets. "You're _more _than human, and yet you act like you're less." The voice turned ugly, laced with hatred like poison. "Stop _acting_ like a fucking human, Fullmetal!"

Alphonse unknowingly interrupted, shuffling off towards the dresser with a quiet, "Alright, Brother."

Envy hissed lowly, and Ed flinched. The image his mind had conjured morphed, darkened, until the indifference in the elder homunculus' expression faded to spite, anger, disgust. The unusual violet eyes glimmered with frustration at the thought of the blood they had been denied. Edward was fairly sure Envy's presence was nothing more than imaginary, so… where was that hungry expression coming from?

"You'll be a better homunculus than a brother," Envy spat, his light footfalls announcing his approach. Ed tried his hardest to bury further into the mattress, but the laws of physics were against him. "Can't you see what you're doing?"

Ed shook his head weakly, teeth pulling at the under sheet. Yet he couldn't suppress the soft '_No_'. And he knew. He knew before Envy said it, because… Envy wasn't really there. Ed's _thoughts_ were.

"You're _hurting_ him." Envy chuckled, a deeper sound than Ed was expecting. "You're hurting your own fucking _precious_ brother, just by being here."

Ed gasped aloud as Alphonse lifted the blankets down to the foot of the bed. The sudden change caused his automail to glint, to shine, to _remind_. It was horrible—he could almost _feel_ the knife within his ribs, the false blood filling his mouth and staining his tongue—and he couldn't get away.

No escape.

_Sorry_.

He didn't realise he was repeating the word over and over in his soundless voice until Envy started to mimic him sarcastically in a high falsetto. _Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!_ It was followed by a loud laugh—

_What was so damn funny?_

—and as the homunculus began speaking once more, Ed had to resist the urge to scream over him. He was _quite sure_ that Alphonse knew his brother had lost it, but Edward still desperately clutched to those last few remnants of pride. He _hadn't_ lost it—not really… Not really…

Things were just complicated.

"Brother." Alphonse laid the requested long-sleeved shirt and pants beside Ed's clenched automail fist. Ed didn't open his eyes, but his free hand unconsciously crept up to cradle his forehead. If he let his concentration slip, the knife would meet his touch again.

"Brother… I've been thinking."

The uncertainty in Al's voice spiked Ed's curiosity, but not in a good way. It was similar to the way he had felt as a child, when he and Al passed by a dead animal on the side of the road. It smelt, it was often half-eaten, and its gaze was glassy, but it held a morbid fascination for the two boys. Yet Edward had the uneasy feeling that what bothered Al couldn't be poked with a long stick.

Ed ran his palm along the uneven surface of the sheets until it struck something foreign. It was one of his better shirts, rarely worn due to his uncanny ability to tear clothing whenever he got in a fight. But he shrugged into it quickly, waiting for Alphonse to continue as he sat on the other side of the mattress and worked on the buttons.

"They were talking about it in the hospital, and…" Al shifted nervously. "I think you should see a psychologist."

Ed spun around quickly, mouth agape with shock. For once, the sight of Alphonse's body didn't urge up fear or nausea—he was too stunned. It took quite a while for Ed's befuddled brain to sort through Al's declaration, to understand what was being said. A _psychologist?_

Alphonse's gloves twisted together nervously. "I-I think it'd be a good idea. I mean… It's… You're not acting like yourself, Brother. It's scary." Urged on by Edward's forced silence, Al kept talking, the words coming quicker and quicker. "Y-you haven't said a word since the colonel found you, a-and they could fix that! They could fix… well, whatever this is! _Please, _Brother! Can you just… try it?"

Al didn't say anything, and Ed didn't hear it, yet the unspoken '_For me?_' echoed stubbornly on the edges of the one-sided conversation.

Ed's features set into a stubborn frown and he bent to put on his pants. Already, with half of his automail hidden, the throbbing in his chest was slowing, though he doubted it would ever go back to 'normal'. Was it even a heart anymore? What constituted a heart for a homunculus?

If he ever managed to find the real Envy, Ed would rip him open and see the answer for himself. But there were more important, more _pressing_ issues to be dealt with before Edward could even _fantasise_ about the warmth of that damn monster's life flowing over his skin… More important, perhaps, but they held nowhere near as much appeal.

Ed stood to button up his pants, vaguely grateful that Al hadn't chosen any of his 'usual' clothing. Namely, the leather. With his automail hidden, a tremendous weight slithered from Ed's shoulders, immediately replaced by those lurking just behind it.

Without turning to look, Ed nodded at his brother. He didn't want to see anyone about his 'problems'—they were his to do with what he pleased!—but home-life demanded that he offered Alphonse that small victory. Both he and Envy scoffed at the thought that, _maybe_, it could help.

Again, the notebook found itself nestled in his lap, new words etched into its recently-abandoned pages.

_'__It'll be useless. You know that.'_

"No, Edward," Al insisted forcefully, pushing the book into Ed's hands. Ed started at the use of his full name, his mouth falling further at the edges. "We _don't _know that. Not yet. If we can just get your voice back… we can…"

_We can—we can—we can—we can—we can—_

_What?_

Ed had never felt the need to _do something _just as much as he did in that moment. 'Something', however, was too broad a term. His insides churned as if filled with acid, spitting up fury, raw and jagged and _biting. _He was a pot of inhuman, unreasonable rage, boiling and screaming and casting up noxious clouds of fumes to choke, suffocate, _kill_ all rationality left within him.

And why?

Because Al had _hesitated._ How dare he preach about matters beyond his understanding? Al _didn't _understand—he _couldn't_! He couldn't see the floral print mattress, mould creeping through the rusted springs that protruded like discoloured bones. He couldn't see the blood—_Edward's blood_—that periodically stained the floorboards, red and brown and taunting. He couldn't see _Envy,_ the fucking source of all Ed's problems! He didn't _understand_! He didn't _understand_!

"How could he understand, Fullmetal?"

Ed glared at the hallucination, golden eyes molten in their anger. That didn't stop Envy one bit.

"After all…" The homunculus wandered leisurely towards the blood splattered mattress and tugged on one of the springs, allowing it to retract with a squeal of protest. "Your brother doesn't feel pain. It's likely he doesn't remember it at all."

Ed stubbornly ignored him as he wrote down an agreement to Al's request. Hopefully, Ed would be able to convince him against the idea before the first session came about.

"Come _on_, Fullmetal!" Envy groaned in annoyance upon reading his acceptance. "You're our newest recruit!" He crept up close enough to purr into Edward's ear, "Let's have some fun, yeah?"

**Thanks for reading :) Because I'm sure this will come up—no one saw any red sparks when Ed scratched himself because he didn't draw any blood**

**Please leave a review!**


	15. The Last Monday—part 1

**_THREE WISE MONKEYS_**

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**So thank you to the three people who reviewed last chapter—justisalinn, guest, and TheHaloFreak. It's really nice to get reviews, even just a few :) I'm guessing that the changed summary is why there wasn't much feedback?**

**Anyway, after this chapter it gets more interesting (I hope). This is chapter 15 of 19, so there's not far to go!**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.**

**_CHAPTER FIFTEEN • The Last Monday—part 1_**

If Alphonse had a face, it would have been grimacing. As it was, the light in the cavities of his eyes lacked much of its usual lustre. Had Ed been able to look at him, he may have noticed the guilt weighing down Al's armour and twisting the remnant of his soul. But Ed's inability to communicate was high on the list of 'Why Alphonse felt like the worst brother _ever_'. If it hadn't been for that, Al wouldn't have been forced into doing something he hated.

Lying to his brother.

Said brother was playing a game of one-man hide-and-seek beneath the baby blue blanket. The edges had come untucked from under the mattress, revealing what Al supposed might be a toe. He couldn't tell for sure if it was the right or the left foot—every inch of skin up to Ed's neck was covered in clothing—but it wouldn't make a difference either way, so why worry? The issue was really of the heat: Alphonse had no way to determine if the temperature was hot or cold. Ed could have been burning up and he wouldn't know.

And _that_ was what added urgency to the situation. Alphonse couldn't take proper care of a mute Ed—especially when that mute Ed was again refusing to use the notebook! Everyone knew he was strong-willed, but there were times where that became too much of a hassle.

"Brother?" Al asked with his voice barely louder than a whisper. The last time he'd startled Ed, it… hadn't been pretty. "Brother?" He got his answer in the form of a large twitch. "I'm… I'm going out for a while. I'm gonna book you an appointment with the psychologist—" a stronger twitch accompanied this revelation, "—and maybe… get some food."

Ever since Edward had been found, Al noticed more and more inconsistencies within his character. One was particularly worrisome: his reaction to food, and eating in general. He ate in hospital, Al had seen it, but as he returned back to the dormitories, that habit changed. It was nearing the fourth day, and Al had only convinced Ed to eat three times.

Ed had thrown up five times.

Their fridge was full, and Alphonse knew that, but he needed an excuse to leave. Ed's behaviour was wearing on him, and a weariness he hadn't experienced for years made his metaphorical eyes scratchy with fatigue. It was a mental exhaustion, slowing down his mind and making him wish _desperately_ that he could still sleep.

He wanted an adult. Someone to tell him what to do, and how to act. Ed wasn't comfortable around him—and Al didn't want to call it 'fear'—so he needed a way to… to _reverse_ whatever that bastard Colt had done.

That was why, at nine in the morning, Al headed not to the nearest market, but to a café some two kilometres away.

It had been his idea to choose such a remote location. 'Remote' in the sense that fairly few military personnel traversed that side of town—it was a respectable neighbourhood populated only by those doing well in life. Though the buildings themselves were quite similar to those closer to headquarters and even the seedier sections of Central, the baskets of flowers suspended outside every window brought a smile to even the most despicable man's face.

But it seemed that didn't apply to Colonel Roy Mustang.

"So," the man began no sooner than Al sat down, setting his untouched coffee onto the table. "How's my youngest subordinate?"

Though the words were light and, perhaps, slightly carefree, the way in which Mustang uttered them was not. Al had to wonder if the worry lines around the colonel's mouth were new, or had merely deepened due to their recent trials. Those, coupled with the weary eyes of a man expecting bad news, painted an accurate portrayal of the hopelessness Al assumed Roy felt. He had always been good at reading people.

"That's why I'm here." Alphonse straightened up to wave away an approaching waitress, disrupting the red and white table umbrella as he did so.

Roy sighed and spun a spoon around his coffee. "I figured. So, is it regular trouble or…?"

"No," Al muttered and slumped dispiritedly. "He's not eating. Or sleeping, either, I think. He won't… He won't look at me." As Al talked, the troubles he held in the hollows of his body poured out. "He won't write, won't talk, won't leave the bed! He keeps… _glancing_ over to empty space—and there's nothing there! And just yesterday, w-we put his automail back on, and…"

Roy waited patiently, a deep frown painting darker lines on his young face. "Isn't that good?"

Al shook his head and leant back, suddenly aware of how close they were. "No, not really. It's like he's… scared of it. I hardly ever see him this scared, Colonel, and usually I can do something about it, but… I'm _completely _useless!"

People were beginning to watch them—the man in an officer's uniform and his armoured companion—and Al fell silent at their curiosity. It was more Ed's style to rant at them and tell their audience to mind their own bloody business.

"Alphonse," Roy brought him back to the present with a steady calmness only betrayed by shaking fingers. He was the embodiment of adult reasoning that Al lusted over, the physical apparition of the soothing presence that could assure him 'everything will be alright'. It was still hard to believe. "Where is Fullmetal now?"

"Back at the dormitories."

"In the military barracks?" Roy confirmed, then took a sip of his coffee, expression contorting as he realised, "Ack. It's cold."

"Colonel?" Al wished he had a proper face to communicate with. Maybe _then_ it wouldn't be so hard. "Why do you need to know that?"

"I'm going to visit him," Roy said in determination. But although Alphonse had no expressions of his own, he could read others' perfectly. And what he saw was clearly reluctance. "I'll need to file my own report on this, so I may as well be involved."

What would Ed do if Al came back not with groceries, but a person? And not just any person—the one who broke him out of hell in the first place. A flash of bitterness cut off anything Al was going to say. It should have been _him_ rushing in to save his brother! Maybe then Ed could trust him! But the rational part of him argued, as usual. Roy had never told him what he found in that room. There was almost definitely a good reason.

While Al was lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice Roy stand. Nor did he notice the younger soldier who ran up the street and snapped the colonel a sharp salute. Al only regained his attention in time to hear:

"They're all dead."

**XxX**

The fresh air felt so _good._

It hit him as soon as he stepped outside—on his own feet in the first time in… a while. It was early morning, on a day that promised to be fairly warm, and he was _alone._

Ed stretched his arms up as high as they would go and let out a contented sigh. There was a good chance the dormitories were empty, so there was no need to rush in fear that someone might send him back to the room. He couldn't go back there yet. Not yet.

He had something to do.

A special task, bestowed upon him through the most lasting and memorable method in existence. It employed the two largest, most potent, emotions as fuel to the fire that would eventually burn down the entire city.

Hatred.

And fear.

A person who holds those key ammunitions also holds the key to desperation, rage, and a strength that far surpasses that of an ordinary human's. And when the being who holds them isn't human in the first place… The effect simply amplifies.

And his target was the one who had awoken those inner chasms of his personality.

Envy.

The homunculus who had toyed with Edward's head while toying with his heart in quite a literal sense. Romance and desire had no place in torture, and so the knife that carved fissures in that once-vital organ had simultaneously chiselled Envy's name into the Grim Reaper's list. Ed would be the one to send the psychotic monster to his death—that had been his fate ever since the first blade pierced flesh. A sequence of lefts and rights, ups and down, all eventually leading to _the moment_ in which Ed would cut off Envy's head and it wouldn't grow back.

"And?" The false homunculus glanced away from nails that were surely immaculate, watching the road as if waiting for a ride. "Are you _ever_ gonna go? We've been standing here for _ages._"

'_Shut up,'_ Ed wanted to retaliate, settling instead for a sharp glare. '_Just let me enjoy this first_.'

The apparition huffed and rolled his eyes, assuring that his displeasure was annoyingly obvious. But Ed couldn't say that he didn't understand—he did. He was painfully eager to follow the twinge in his chest, a twinge surely created by the proximity of his prey. Prey… He liked that description. It brought to his mind images of Envy scurrying along bright streets, searching for non-existent shadows in which to hide.

"Let's _go!_" Envy whined, jumping nimbly from foot to foot. "He's gonna be hard to find if we don't _leave! _Come on, Fullmetal—I wanna _kill_!"

Ed snorted, identifying irony in the fact that it appeared to be _Envy_ who was so keen to hunt down the homunculus. The mind truly _was_ a funny thing.

He couldn't delay it any longer—not that that was his intention. The faux-Envy bouncing beside him was the mental manifestation of his desire to _move_, to _chase_, and he couldn't help but feel a tremor of anxiety, and perhaps even fear, at the prospect of having the real Envy _ripped open._

As Edward started to run, the stone inside him guiding as if by a magnetic force, his dreadful companion gave one last _whoop! _and disappeared mid-leap. A rush of energy powered Ed's weary limbs, propelling him forward at a speed that burnt his eyes and stung a flush into his cheeks. Street signs passed in a blur of nonsensical letters, people stumbled to avoid him, he jumped over cars and fences, and most of all…

He ran.

The pulsing strengthened until it was simply a vibration, a rapid shuddering within his body, riling up his copious anger until a snarl burst from his lips. The socks he had donned the previous day were struggling to maintain their dignity as they pounded along the pavement, woollen fibres fraying and snapping and forming holes. Ed's feet didn't fare much better; his right foot was constantly surrounded by red sparks, the colour of the blood they healed.

Fake blood in a fake person sprinting to kill his fake creator.

He didn't care how many times he would have to watch Envy's death. He didn't care how many souls would go to waste. They weren't human any longer—Edward had _seen_ that, back when he was human himself. It seemed like an age ago that the standard rule '_A knife to the head will kill you_' was a veritable threat, but… It was scary how fast knowledge could alter and adapt.

Just a month ago, if someone had told Ed that he would soon be hurtling through Central in search of the homunculus Envy, he probably would have asked 'why?'. But there were no queries or questions regarding his purpose anymore.

He was going to ascertain that _nothing_ remained of that damn monster. Not a hair, not a tooth, not even a single drop of blood.

It would _all_ vanish, and then Ed could go on living like normal. Like he had before the whole ordeal began.

Oh, it seemed so long ago…

And as though that nostalgia was the key, the stone's thrumming ceased.

Its absence left a type of emptiness, a feeling of loss as Ed's run slowed… slowed… _stopped_, in front of the remains of a familiar building. A shudder wove its way down his spine, leaving behind anticipation and wiping away most of his worries. Envy was somewhere inside that building—waiting, maybe, for what Ed determined to be their last fight.

It was like some warped version of equivalent exchange. Nothing was given, and nothing was received, but everything came full-circle.

It made sense. Laboratory 5 held the memories of Ed's first battle against the homunculi, and now he was back as one himself. But unlike that first meeting, Ed was _sure_ his automail would hold out. The only time he would allow it to break would be while he leered over the homunculus' last soul, last body, with blood caked into the gears and wires. Sure, it would be tough to explain to Winry, but he was sure she would understand. Eventually.

Yet again he caught himself prolonging the moment of Envy's death. Edward was acting by instinct, and every instinct urged him to savour the exhilaration filling him before what was sure to be a magnificent sparring match. He was standing on a road map like those given out at Central Station. One step forward would lead him down a main street, a second may drag him into somewhere far less inviting, but much more interesting. And so it would go on, until he reached the heart of the city and thrust his blade into it.

He took the first step of many, departing the unassuming pavement and entering the crumbling shadows of Lab 5's gate. When he came with Alphonse, a soldier had been stationed at the opening. But neglect and nature had clearly proved that soldier redundant; there was nothing left to guard.

Ivy crawled along the stone walls, still young and stretching out tender shoots tentatively, as if to ask '_is this okay?_'. The more brave of its kind had already overwhelmed much of the brickwork that lay scattered along the ground, as well as much of the path. Red and white hazard tape, faded by the sun, did a poor job of concealing what Ed remembered to be a plain doorway. Whatever the homunculi had done blew that entrance to pieces, along with so much vital architecture Ed was surprised it still maintained about half of its structural integrity.

But walking inside, he decided that earlier guess of half was severely generous. It appeared that only the façade of the laboratory had survived so well, and beyond that was mere rubble and the occasional pillar of jagged stone. Ed picked through it cautiously, trying his best not to dislodge any pieces. He knew Envy was there, and wasn't haughty enough to believe that didn't go both ways, which made every move a risk.

Though when he climbed up a section of wall—his mind protesting the decision and quietly thanking the Gate he didn't wear his red cloak—he was able to affirm the nagging uncertainty chewing on his insides. Envy wasn't anywhere to be seen.

He was underground.

Ed dropped to the concrete, somewhat pleased with the spiderweb of cracks his automail produced, and wiped an arm across his forehead. The sun was beating down on Central, or else just on him, sticking his bangs to his cheeks and plastering his messy braid against the back of his neck. It would be nice to go somewhere cool.

With that thought in mind, Ed clapped his gloved hands together and slammed them to the ground. It shifted with a rumbling growl, blue light forcing the hard materials into a shape of Ed's choosing: a ladder. He didn't use it, though. By the time he had descended three rungs, Edward decided it was taking _too damn long._ Without checking the distance, he let go.

The rush of air chilled his skin and fluttered his clothes as if he were caught in front of a giant industrial fan. It was almost calming, until the ground chose to remind him of its presence.

Ed would have liked to say that his impact left a crater of sorts on the large tiles he hit, but the opposite was more truthful. As he struggled to regain his footing, the red lightning bright enough to obscure his vision, Ed watched as his bones popped back into realignment with sickening snaps—even the automail morphed back into full health—and listened to a familiar taunting laugh echo through the hall.

Blood trickled from his mouth, and he quickly wiped it away. Straightening up, Ed fixed his features into an unwavering scowl and addressed the monster before him.

"Envy."

**Yep, he got his voice back. Hope you liked the chapter!**

**(Has anyone tried the Vegemite chocolate? It's good)**


	16. The Last Monday—part 2

_**THREE WISE MONKEYS**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**Thanks again to all the reviewers—and sorry the replies were late! I'm not gonna say exactly what's going on in my life ('cause that would be fucking boring), but this is the first time I've used my computer for anything other than study.**

**With that said, I hope you all enjoy chapter sixteen!**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.**

_**CHAPTER SIXTEEN • The Last Monday—part 2**_

"Yo, Shorty."

Ed released a growl at the derogatory nickname, glaring at the homunculus with a mad look in his eye.

Envy sat on the opposite side of the cavernous room, one arm draped over his knee and the other across his thigh. It was the perfect picture of 'relaxed', but Edward could see the tightly-coiled muscles already prepared to spring into action at a moment's notice. He was the same; a physical ache had settled into his joints, urging him forward.

When a few tense seconds passed in complete silence, Envy gave a loud sigh. "This is boring, Pipsqueak. At least tell me what you've been up to."

A sound that may have been a sob escaped Ed's chest as he laid eyes on his tormentor. He wanted to meld that grinning mouth shut. He wanted to claw out those taunting violet orbs. He wanted… He _wanted_...

"I'm gonna kill you."

"Oh." Envy raised an eyebrow, his smile stretching towards his ears. "So _that's _how it is, huh? Really? No 'thank you, dear Envy, for helping me get stronger'?"

Ed's fists clenched together so hard that his automail creaked. "Fuck you."

Envy hummed thoughtfully as he gracefully rose. His toes touched the edge of the ruined transmutation circle. "That hurts," he said in an airy voice, as if he were talking about the heightening price of coal. But then he looked up, and his satisfied expression turned to one of glee. "Oh-ho! Look at those _eyes, _Pipsqueak! You really _are_ a homunculus now!"

A guttural, animalistic roar filled the hall as Edward charged forward. His body was weightless, tingling, and powered purely on a rage more intense than that he'd ever experienced. Maybe that was what the people of Ishbal had felt while their families, friends, homes, and lives crumbled beneath the force of the Amestrian army. If so, Ed had no idea how they had lost.

Edward didn't bother bringing out his blade. He wanted to _feel_ the bones of Envy's face cave in under his fist, those tremors and cracks travelling through the metal and into his nerve endings like tiny sparks of ecstasy. The blade would be too clean, too simple, and it would lack that fundamental _intimacy _Ed wanted.

But his punch never connected.

Envy leapt backwards with an ease that must have taken years to perfect, avoiding Ed by less than a few inches. The elder homunculus laughed in mid-air. "Hey, Shorty!" His feet didn't even make a sound as he alighted a couple of metres away, temptingly within reach. A smirk completed the mocking bow as he said, "Welcome to the family!"

Even though Ed's voice had returned, he abandoned it, preferring instead to unleash another wild yell of frustration and lunge forward again. And his knuckles struck. Envy, still bent over almost double, shuddered as his skull returned to its normal shape from within a burst of red lightning, and he took a few quick steps back.

"Good shot," Envy praised him, but there was nothing impressed in his attitude. The joking mood was gone, and Ed steeled himself for a returning blow. "You know…" Envy's fingers twitched, a dulled version of his previous joy forcing its way back onto his face. "I learnt… a lot about you last week, but…"

Ed breathed in deep, gritting his teeth in order to ask, "What?"

"I never found out—" the homunculus' arm distorted into a large blade that scraped along the ground and threw up sparks, "—if you had any abilities."

Frowning, Ed echoed, "Abilities?"

Envy didn't reply; he surged forward, the blade swinging around in a gleaming arc. Ed barely managed to block it before another came towards his unprotected left arm, slicing through flesh and muscle and lodging in bone. Gritting his teeth, he jumped back. The wound was already closing, leaving nothing but a bloodstained tear in his shirt, but the fight had been infinitely harder at the appearance of the double blades. The impossibly sharp edges were threat enough, but with reality and memories switching in his mind, Ed couldn't focus on what was fake and what he should have been dodging.

Maybe it was too soon for him to pick a fight with Envy. He should have given himself more time to rest, more time to cope with the images flashing before him. The dim room on 32 Seaview Road overlaid the cavern beneath Lab 5, flickering between the two like a poor radio signal, caused a disorientation similar to blood loss, or severe exhaustion. He should have waited—

_No._

His vision suddenly solidified, just as Envy's elbow hit his temple with a loud _crack!_ Ed stumbled to the ground, springing away not a moment too soon. The tiles where he had stood shattered in all directions, shards spraying upwards in a large circle. The battle started to develop a pattern—jump back, lunge forward, punch, cut, heal. Their movements were a blur of gold, silver, and red, dancing around each other on a floor that was gradually being covered in a vibrant crimson.

_Jump back_.

Envy leapt away as Edward finally transformed his automail into a simple blade that ended not far beyond his knuckles. It reflected the sparse sunlight in an eerie manner, casting more light onto its owner's bloody face and deepening the shadows. Silent now, he

_lunged forward_,

pleased to hear Envy's low hiss and quiet mutter of '_I hate pain'. _Warmth caressed Ed's side, flowing down his automail from its lodging in Envy's abdomen. Envy

_punched_

Edward's jaw with enough strength to take down a chimera, and Ed stumbled a couple of metres. A jagged block of stone snagged his ankles, grazing most of the skin and tearing his socks until they were even further beyond recognition. The

_cut_

in Envy's stomach

_healed_

immediately, and then the pattern began anew. Except it was Ed dodging Envy's blows, and not the other way around.

It was conducted in an eerie silence, rather different from the beginning of the fight. Precision demanded concentration, the same concentration fixed in both of their expressions. They were on even grounds in terms of strength, but not experience. That was the vital difference between them, and also why so much of the blood was Ed's.

But then the attacks suddenly… stopped.

Ed's breaths came loud and ragged, and his mouth tasted metallic. His clothes clung to his body as if he had gone outside in a heavy, red rain—he dared not look at them. The material was barely maintaining its shape; it hung from his frame in long, wet strips, and only here and there lay the hint of definition: the stiff edge of a collar, the remains of a sleeve caught around his wrist.

Envy laid a hand upon his waist, annoying clean and composed. Just the twisting of his lips betrayed the wrath he felt at the interruption, a respite that Ed still didn't understand.

Yet he wasn't about to complain.

Envy's expression was surprisingly sober, though his narrowed eyes clearly displayed a message reading '_Annoyed', _or '_Pissed off_'. There was a dangerous glint in them that riled Ed up. If those violet irises ever settled on Ed's own, he didn't know how he might react.

"I see."

As if those two simple words had been a trigger of sorts, the alchemist flew forward. His metal fist cut through the air perilously close to Envy's pale complexion, leaving an incision no wider than a strand of a spider's web. It had been destined for the homunculus' glittering eye, and only a quick manoeuvre on Envy's behalf allowed it to be spared.

As Edward's attacks grew in numbers, an uneasy sensation settled in his bones like lead. Envy's fighting style had altered. His shots were less accurate, and they lacked their usual power whenever they managed to connect. Frustration had carved an intricate design into his face; his teeth were slightly bared, brow furrowed, and his gaze darted around the cavern as if he were distracted.

It was with a loud, annoyed growl that Envy finally sprung away, taking shelter—though not hiding—beside a chunk of debris that towered over them both. His eyes were still flickering in all directions, barely settling before starting their new search—and for what, Ed couldn't tell. The prodigious qualities that many marvelled at often fled his mind in the midst of battle, and he had been fighting ever since Envy caught him at that phone box. It had left his ability to reason even more tattered than his clothing.

Ed took a shallow breath in preparation to run forward again, but an unexpected action took his off guard. Envy's hand was raised, the palm flat in the universal '_stop_' gesture. He didn't seem tired in the slightest, unless the constant movement was a strange sign of fatigue.

"Hold up, Pipsqueak," he commanded in a lazy drawl.

Ed felt certain his fingers would drop off if he exerted any more pressure into his closed fists. "I'm _not_ a pipsqueak, bastard!"

"You know how much I _hate_ getting hurt," Envy continued as if Ed hadn't interrupted. His hand waved around in an appeal to look casual, or perhaps to wipe away the memories conducted in that room less than a year ago. "I'm sure I mentioned it last time."

"Then…" Ed paused to calm his thoughts—what would Al have thought if he heard them? "What? Why're you bringing that up now?"

"I was thinking about your precious _equivalent exchange_." His purple eyes were closed, his shoulders leaning against the rock. "And I've come up with a deal… Of sorts."

Oh, how Ed wanted to force his automail down Envy's crafty throat. Maybe _that _would prevent the lies from pouring out. "Yeah," he growled, "right. If you don't wanna fight, then why not let me kill you?"

"Because, Shorty. I've been alive a long time, and I'm not gonna let some newly-born homunculus kill _me_." Envy let out a condescending laugh. "Now, d'you wanna hear my deal or not?"

Ed frowned, caught off guard. "I… I don't…"

Envy waited no more than five seconds before he pushed away from his prop and stood up straight. "_Fine_," he said in a mockery of wounded pride. "I guess it wasn't important, anyway."

In the silence that followed, every sound seemed magnified, and yet Ed heard nothing at all. A buzzing had filled his ears; the audible embodiment of the pins-and-needles skittering across his skin, drowning out everything with its white noise. Could it have been anger? Rage? Could it have been his own desire to snap Envy's neck that actually froze him in place?

No.

It was curiosity.

The desire for knowledge, the need to know _everything_, was a trait that had brought the Fullmetal alchemist more troubles than answers. And yet he couldn't kill that want. It would stay with him no matter how many times his body fell to pieces and knit itself back together.

Envy was practically _strutting._ He paced the unstable floor as if waiting for the response he knew Ed would provide. It was inevitable that Edward Elric would ask such questions, but he had decided that that _human_ died almost two weeks before. He was Fullmetal—the homunculus.

And yet the urge never so much as faded. He wanted to know what was so important to make the mighty Envy pause in a fight; he wanted to know what crucial information was burning away at Ed's weakening self-restraint. He was Fullmetal, but before that he had been a boy. Some things never change.

So, before the silence could stretch further into embarrassing territory, Ed blurted out: "_Tell me!"_

Envy smirked and kicked one lean leg up until it kissed his nose, holding the position for a few moments like he was waiting for Ed to crack again.

Ed merely repeated his plea, though it lacked the sheer volume and desperation of his previous one. "Tell me. Tell me what… what this deal is."

"I really think you'll like this one," Envy said calmly. He didn't say anything more.

Ed growled despite himself, his pretty face contorting into one of nightmares. "Cut the crap! I already _said_ I wanted to hear it, so talk."

"So here's what I was thinking." Envy rolled his shoulders until his neck audibly cracked. "You're kinda smart right? How about I make you smarter?"

Ed glared at him dubiously, but the homunculus never looked over.

"Peace for information, Pipsqueak."

"… Peace?" Ed's frown deepened and he shifted into a better fighting stance.

Envy nodded and leant back against a crumbling pillar. Ed strongly willed it to fall on his despised companion. It would take at least one of the sin's lives during its journey to the ground.

"I propose that _you_—" Envy raked a hand tipped with animalistic claws down the rough surface, "—stand right there and listen to what I say. No questions, no fighting. I'll tell you what I think happened, and _you'll_ sit quiet and shut up."

Edward grit his teeth so hard he swore one of them cracked. "And what's your price?"

Envy sighed dramatically, instantly switching to the form of a teenage girl clad in white. She sunk down the pillar, her delicate dress catching and tearing on the numerous imperfections. "I _hate_ fighting. Killing—yes, that's wonderful—but not fighting. I don't think you've ever experienced it, have you, Shorty? It's _marvellous_, killing is_._ Sometimes, you can get _right up close_, until you can actually _see_ yourself in their eyes." The gossamer fabric was suddenly clinging to the girl's form, darkening to a crimson. Envy raised her bloodstained hands up for Ed to appraise, delightedly showing them to the entire world. "Death is an amazing thing, Shorty. But it's not so much fun to die yourself."

"That doesn't mean anything." Ed started walking over to the laughing girl, his mismatched feet producing different sounds on the tile. "Tell me what the fuck that has to do with equivalency!"

Envy held up a finger, shedding his disguise and going silent all at once. He waited close to ten seconds before speaking, "If I tell you what you want to know, _you _have to promise to let me leave. And you can't say a word to _him."_

"Who?" Ed asked, his mind immediately conjuring up images of Alphonse, the colonel, Major Armstrong, and every other male he could think of.

Envy planted a hand on his waist. "_Father_. Oh, don't be so shocked, you idiot. We had to come from _somewhere_, didn't we?"

Ed shook his head irritably. It was all taking so long! "Whatever. Just tell me everything."

There was a loud laugh, then a quiet, "Everything?"

"You know what the fuck I mean."

"Fine, fine." Envy rolled his eyes, wearing a grin that seemed to stretch over his face. "I get it. Do you know how wine is made, Pipsqueak?"

Taking a deep breath in an effort to somewhat slow the pounding in his centre, Ed said, "Yeah. Of course I do."

"Hmm. Then think of yourself as a _tiny_—"

"_I'm not short!_"

"—bottle of red wine," Envy continued without missing a beat. "Your mummy and daddy made you… sixteen years ago? And for sixteen years, their blood has been flowing through your veins."

"So?"

"So!" The homunculus was obviously enjoying himself way too much. "Your father—the famous _Hohenheim of Light_—is a Philosopher's Stone."

Ed's eyes widened. "He was a homunculus?"

A short quiet followed the question, but it was soon replaced with obnoxious laughter. "Not even _close_, Shorty! The point is—like a repugnant bottle of wine—his blood, and the blood of the Philosopher's Stone, has been fermenting in _you_. D'you think you can do the rest, Runt?"

His lips felt numb. His tongue was a dead weight lying inside his mouth. But still, he couldn't ignore Envy's baited taunts. "When I died… it formed a Stone. A Philosopher's Stone."

"Maybe." Envy hummed. "You don't sound so sure. _I_ always thought it had something to do with the _way_ you died, else he would have warned you and your precious brother."

"But I'm right, aren't I?" It was too much information. Ed quickly grabbed at the loose layers of his bangs, pulling them as strongly as he dared. The slight pain did nothing to sort out his problems.

Instead of answering, Envy went down a different—yet related—pathway. The roads were narrow, dark, and damp in there.

"I realised what you were as soon as that numbskull _Jeremy Colt_ saw you out the window." Envy talked as if recounting some long forgotten piece of history, not a memory only just recently burned into Ed's mind. "That fucking idiot thought you'd sold your soul to the devil! I didn't bother correcting him. He was practically right." Envy laughed at his own joke, ignoring Ed's rage. "Besides, it was fun to let him think that shit! He thought he was some _righteous angel_ sent down to _punish_ you! As if!"

"Did you kill him?" Ed asked in a voice like stone. It wasn't that he particularly _disapproved _of Colt's murder, but he was somewhat put out that he couldn't do it himself. After Envy revealed himself back at 32 Seaview Road, the man from the bar faded out of importance.

Envy nodded, seemingly pleased with himself. "Of course I did. The bastard didn't know his place."

"He belongs in a hole."

"And that's exactly where I dumped him! But I didn't really dig a hole—I fed him to Gluttony. Now—" Envy switched from giddiness to business so fast it might have sent any lesser man's head reeling, "—are we done?"

There was something odd about the whole conversation—and it wasn't just that _Envy_ was holding a conversation, though that played a part in Ed's suspicion. More alarms were set off by the way the other homunculus was _acting. _He was jumpy. Alert. And he was trying much too hard to get away.

Ed felt a smirk grow. "I don't think so. Why don't you tell me why you're so eager to run off?"

"I think you need to clean your ears, Pipsqueak. I ha—"

"You hate pain," Ed interrupted. "I know. I'm not talking about that."

A low rumble—an animalistic snarl—bounced around the cavern, but it stopped as soon as it started. "Then _what?"_

That had Ed stumped. The strange behaviour had been so obvious to him, and yet he couldn't even begin to define what was wrong. Silence stretched on and on and on, like those large rubber bands he and Al had once played with. Trust exercises never worked well with Edward Elric in their midst, so Al wound up with more than one sore eye. That game had been banned after a particularly nasty welt rose on Al's cheek.

He was broken out of thoughts of snapping bands by a soft sigh. It almost sounded weary. Envy's expression had settled in a grimace.

"Well, Shrimp," he said, sounding quite annoyed. "You've got an ability after all."

"An… ability?" Ed repeated disinterestedly. "So what? I've known alchemy for years."

Envy's gaze ghosted over where Ed stood, right in the middle of their battlefield.

"All homunculi have an ability. '_Power_' just sounds so pretentious." Envy wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I can change shape. Lust has those freaky nail things. Gluttony's a fucked-up Gate. Get the idea?" A smile stole its way back to his face, though he still looked disgruntled. "_You,_ dear Shorty, are invisible."

Ed considered laughing. Surely that would stop whatever shit Envy had left to say. There was _no way _he could be invisible. Envy was a brilliant actor—Ed wasn't so caught up in his hatred to admit that—there was no proof that what he said wasn't a lie. It was… an act. It had to be. There was _no possible way_ it could be true. To do that… he'd have to somehow halt the light particles, or… or _he didn't know!_

His breath was coming faster as panic set in. Panic caused by the sudden certainty that Envy wasn't lying.

But if he was telling the truth, that wouldn't be too bad. The lump of panic that had settled in Ed's stomach eased, disappeared, as his mind wrapped around the possibilities. Envy couldn't see him. He was fighting against an unseen opponent.

Ed had an advantage.

There were so many opportunities opening before him! He could get in close; steal a life or two off the wary homunculus without Envy even having the time to brace himself! One life, two, three, _all of them!_ The pulsing in Ed's chest quickened in excitement, and his cheeks hurt from the malicious smile tearing them in half.

But a dampener soon appeared to pause his plans. It came in the form of a loud _clank!_ when Edward set his automail foot down. Envy's wandering gaze wasted no time in finding him, staring someplace near his feet.

"You're gonna have to be quieter than that, Shorty," he drawled in cautious boredom. "Or this'll be another easy win."

Ed grit his teeth. His mind was flying ahead at a remarkable speed, tossing out theories and strategies in a loud, colourful blur. He couldn't focus on any of them; the input was making him dizzy, distracted. Random words were regurgitated from the chaotic cloud, but without their companions, they didn't make sense.

_—__Melt—_

_—__Sand—_

_—__Burn—_

_—__Hide—_

_—__Footprints—_

_—__Go—_

Nothing.

For a moment, the images stilled, displaying a darkened room with a floor made of sand. A man and a woman watched from a higher vantage point as Ed and a suit of armour—_Al, his brother_—fought to stay balanced on the roiling ground.

_Sand!_

It was a temporary solution at best, but hopefully one that had escaped Envy's predictions. Judging by Father Cornello's attempt, Ed decided that he would have no more than five seconds before the sand stilled and his footprints became visible. And that was being generous.

Before the idea could be lost, Ed joined his hands together—briefly wondering if the blue reaction could be seen—and slammed them into the floor.

Chemical bonds unravelled, separated, reformed. The change caused a phenomenon similar to wind to roar around the cavern, whipping tiny stones against bare skin with the force of a dust storm. But it was nothing more than a nuisance, and Ed ran forward regardless. Envy was glaring at his turbulent surroundings; he didn't seem to notice the second alchemic flash.

Large hands erupted from the settling sand, trapping Envy's arms and slamming him against a reinforced pillar. Ed smiled grimly at the wet cough that followed, as well as the trickle of blood running down the homunculus' chin. Even though he stood below him, Ed had never felt so superior.

The quiet was broken by a laugh.

Envy threw his head back so hard it cracked the stone behind it. His back arched, pulling painfully on his straining shoulders and shaking with false glee.

"Do you think you have me caught, Shorty?" he asked amid dying snickers. Red light engulfed his foot, shrinking it instantly.

The sound of flesh meeting metal heralded the arrival of two more hands. The new pair slammed directly into the middle of Envy's chest and pried it open in a short burst of fake blood and the harsh cracks of breaking ribs. In the centre of the gaping hole lay a Philosopher's Stone. Yet another fist wrapped itself around the glowing gem, eliciting a grunt from the trapped homunculus.

"Tell me," Ed demanded of him. He felt giddy from at the sight of his previous captor being under his control. His eyes were wide and he couldn't close them even a millimetre—he had to see it _all!_ Every time his Stone was jolted, Envy would let out a small gasp of agony.

It was _wonderful_.

"Tell you…" Envy ground out, "_what_?"

"Tell me why you did it." Ed's grin had disappeared and his breathing was almost as ragged as his prey's. "Why'd you—you _team up_ with a human? And wasn't I a human sacrifice? What'd you do in that bathroom? Wh-what do I do now?"

Envy stayed silent until the fingers around his life tightened threateningly. Ed fancied that he saw a tiny fissure appear in the smooth, crimson surface.

"Argh!" Envy's body contorted once again in pain. "Okay, okay! I'll tell you! Just sto-stop _pulling_!"

Ed relaxed slightly and watched as Envy slumped forward in relief.

"Alright." Envy panted. His body was surrounded in constant red light, unable to heal the wounds. "To answer you first question, it was _fun_, okay? I followed that idiot around for almost two months because it was _fun_. But he got cocky, and I had to kill him." Envy's lips quirked upward. "That was also _fun_. The second question… what was it again?"

"I thought you weren't allowed to kill me."

"Ah, that! _Killing you_ was a mistake—and not entirely my fault." Envy was starting to regain some of his earlier confidence, despite the contradictory position. "If you hadn't disguised yourself, I might have recognised you _before_ then. Lucky for me, you came back to life."

"Yeah," Ed grunted. "Lucky."

Envy studied the silence before saying, "Don't worry, Pipsqueak. You're not a sacrifice anymore. You're not even human. As for your third question, I think you know where I got that needle."

Ed hummed in agreement. "The doctor, right? Mike Fellows."

"Were there anymore questions?"

"Just one." Ed folded his arms tightly, the right one letting out a loud clank. "What do I do now?"

Envy gave another laugh. "How the hell should I know? You decide. Knowing you, you'd go back and _pretend_ to be human. Say, Pipsqueak, how long d'you think that'll last?"

Ed answered with a hateful, and unseen, glare.

"Or…" the homunculus continued. "You could just come with me. Forget being a human—that's over now. Do you _really_ think your dearest brother would like finding out that you're a monster?"

"Shut up."

"Would you tell him, Shorty? Or would—"

"_Shut up_."

"—you just _lie_ to him, over and over for the rest of _his_ life. 'Cause you're—"

_"__Shut up_!"

"—gonna live much longer than him. Unless, of course, he decides to kill you."

"I said," Ed roared, "_shut up!"_

The hand holding Envy's Stone jerked back, bringing its precious cargo along with it. It pulsed weakly in the loosening grip, before plummeting to the ground and skidding away. Above Edward's head, the homunculus' shell froze, wearing a mask of shock. Then slowly, gradually, he decomposed to ash.

The ground met his behind before Ed realised that his legs had given out. He sat there dumbly—not thinking, not seeing—just revelling in the marvellous fact that he had _killed Envy_. He could get on with his life—or whatever lay before him. He could play the role of protective older brother, and keep Al safe from situations like his own. And then, if he found no way to return to normal, Ed could disappear.

No one had to know what happened.

No one…

No. He couldn't do any of that.

He had to leave.

"Woah…"

The voice snapped him out of his thoughts, focusing him on the present once more. He instantly wished it hadn't.

Envy—impossibly—staggered to his feet. Sand crusted one side of his face, but other than that he looked just the same as before.

"Sorry, Pipsqueak," Envy addressed the entire room; Ed was still invisible. "You'll find it's not that easy to kill a homunculus."

**So—because I understand that this... proposition? isn't really in keeping with the manga (Hohenheim says that there's no way for his sons to become like him), I've decided to explain a little. Just a little, 'cause I'm fucking exhausted.**

**I thought that maybe if Ed died in a certain _way_—violence is what I was thinking—maybe it would be enough to... bring out the Stone in his blood or whatever. I dunno. It sounds cheesy put like that.**

**But I've gotta go so I can wake up early and study for mid-year exams! Thank you all who have read this far :) three chapters to go!**


	17. The Last Monday—part 3

_**THREE WISE MONKEYS**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**So some of you _might_ have noticed there wasn't an update last week. Basically, I've been ridiculously fucking busy what with mid-year exams last week and service week this week. I completely forgot about this until... about Tuesday? Luckily, this story's drawing to a close. 17/19 chapters. Sorry about last week! And thank you to the three people who took the time to review. You guys are awesome :)**

**To the people whom I owe PMs, I'll have them done asap!**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.**

_**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN • The Last Monday—part 3**_

His eyes burnt with all the strength of his hottest flames, forcing Roy to squint at the road ahead. It was dark, with just the twin circles of light cast by the military vehicle to keep him from running into an undeserving house or person. It had been a while since Colonel Mustang last drove himself; one of the benefits of his position was the lack of a need to do so. His tired mind was struggling to remember the functions of all the gears.

But it couldn't be helped. No one else was willing to chauffeur him around so late at night, and Lieutenant Hawkeye was preoccupied doing the same task as himself: catching the Fullmetal alchemist.

Edward had disappeared early that morning—immediately after Jeremy Colt vanished and all the personnel assigned to guarding the man were killed. It was too much of a coincidence to pass off as nothing more than chance_. _'_Edward Elric is guilty_'. Even Mustang had a hard time believing anything else.

There were currently almost a hundred men scouring Central for signs of the wayward alchemist, but nothing had turned up. Not a single report had come in—positive or negative. As soon as an area was cleared, the military moved on. Roy was certain they'd searched the entire city—they couldn't find Ed if Ed didn't want to be found. And he obviously didn't want to be.

Roy slowed the car in preparation to stop. The roads were empty, save for a single man or woman slouched on the footpath. On any other day, Roy may have stopped and asked the individual if they were alright, and perhaps escort them to the nearest homeless shelter. At the very least, he would have asked one of his subordinates to do it for him.

But he was busy. And tired. And the sooner he found Edward, the sooner he could go to bed. He doubted that he could drive for much longer before running his vehicle off the road.

A glint of metal caught Roy's eye, making his foot ease up on the accelerator. It was impossible—and had happened several times over the course of the day—but he was suddenly sure that his job was finished. He'd found the Fullmetal alchemist.

Craning his neck out the window, Mustang briefly wondered if his eyes were in so much pain as to create hallucinations, or if that really _was_ Ed half-dead and half-dressed on the pavement. His automail was in full view thanks to the shredded design of his shirt, and even in the waning gas light, his hair seemed to shine.

"Fullmetal?" he muttered softly, hardly daring to trust what he was seeing. The car had slowed to a crawl, and with a _bang!_ the engine stalled. Cursing, Roy relit the ignition and fought the gears back to first. Yet while it sputtered, it refused to come back to life. "Damn it."

A knock on his window snapped Mustang away from his car troubles, causing him to look up at his visitor with an emotive glare. Ed barely reacted. After a moment of immobility, he wandered back to his earlier place and fell into it heavily.

Judging it safe to do so, Roy abandoned his vehicle in the middle of the street. The lights were on, warning the oncoming traffic if any happened to arrive. It was unlikely—the time of night, added to the poor status of the area, made it just about impossible. The red brake lights threw Ed into a crimson pool, and Roy joined him there. Sitting beside him with his feet in the gutters, Mustang searched the face of the boy beside him. Because that was all Edward really was—a boy. A damn unfortunate one, but that didn't matter in the eyes of normal society. A boy shouldn't have had such an expressionless visage, nor so many unpleasant memories.

Ed didn't respond to the blatant stare, but that was nothing new. Not recently. Recently, it had been more common to see the doll-like Edward. The angry one had stepped back, leaving an achingly empty chair that begged to be filled.

"Fullmetal."

The boy glanced up at his name, like an obedient dog. A dog of the military.

"Fullmetal. I hope you know there are people looking for you."

Slowly, Edward nodded. Mustang continued to speak, knowing that his companion could not.

"Can you tell me where you've been? This morning—"

"I didn't kill them." Ed kept a steady gaze on Roy's one of shock. It seemed a lot of things had changed in the past day; Ed's voice was just the beginning if his eyes were anything to go by.

Mustang fixed his mouth into a thin line. It gave him an air of displeasure, superiority, and impatience. "Very well. Then tell me where you've been all day."

Ed's shoulders stiffened and he turned away. He didn't answer.

"If you don't say something, Fullmetal, I'll be forced to assume the worst."

There was a long pause. "I know."

Mustang waited for a follow-up to that comment, but one never came. The night felt cold, whether from his company or the temperature, and so he pulled his coat in tighter, hoping it didn't undermine his authority to be seen shivering. Ed, just beside him, didn't appear to notice. Even dressed as he was—in barely more than the essentials—he showed no sign of discomfort.

"… Fullmetal," Roy began, avoiding the vacant face that rose to meet his. "What're you doing here? This is quite literally the last place we'd think to look."

Ed shrugged. "I didn't know what to do. I think I'm lost. Colonel?"

"Yes?"

"Are you gonna lock me up?"

Mustang frowned, suddenly wishing he'd had the sense to slip on his gloves before starting the conversation. Ed was a suspected criminal, after all.

"We'll only lock you up if you ki—"

"I didn't."

"Then—" Roy caught himself before he asked once more where Ed had spent the day. He didn't want to be talking in circles for the rest of the night—it would be better to collect Ed and take him to Headquarters, and yet he baulked at the idea. It just didn't seem like the right way to get Edward to confess.

It was at that moment that Roy realised that he had already decided Ed's guilt was a certainty. It was no longer a question of '_Is he guilty?_ No. The question was '_Is he innocent?_'

Instead, he adopted a gentle, kind tone—the tone used on young or irrational children—and asked, "Don't you wanna go home? Why come here? Al's been worried sick. Again."

At the mention of Alphonse, Ed's eyes went wide and his nostrils flared, but not in an indication of anger. The flicker of emotion that flitted over him was clearly much more complex than that—since when had Edward Elric been any less than complex? The tiny glimpse Roy managed to catch before Ed turned away babbled of fear, anxiety, sorrow, hurt. Anxiety played an important role in the manner in which he clasped his elbows firmly in both shaking hands, clutching them close to his body. A body that was still suffering the malnourishment of the past week, no matter how hard Al had tried to force Ed to normal.

Ed's hair sheltered the remainder of his reaction from Mustang's curiosity. "No," he mumbled quietly. Goosebumps were rising on his bare skin, leading Roy to suspect that he really _was_ cold. "No, I don't wanna see him." Suddenly, Ed lurched upwards, leaving Roy stunned on the ground. "I gotta go."

Roy straightened to his full height, looming over Ed. He was hoping it might extract a few more answers from the boy. "Go _where,_ Fullmetal?"

Ed waved a hand around vaguely, spinning to examine the entire street. "Somewhere, I guess. Hey—" he almost jabbed Roy in the chest, but stopped at the last second. "Tell Al something for me."

"No. I'm not your messenger boy, Edward."

The use of his full name coaxed a glare out of him, and for a moment Roy was able to glimpse the old Fullmetal lurking beneath his new façade.

"Just _tell him_ something," Ed persisted, adding a, "Please," as an afterthought. "I know you'll be seeing him soon."

"As will you." Mustang discretely patted his pocket in search for his gloves. No such luck. "If you come back the Headquarters with me."

Ed shook his head stubbornly. "You don't _understand_, bastard. I _can't_ see him. I can't!" He pointed a threatening automail finger in Roy's direction. "And you can't make me! I'm leaving the military, a-and so you can't do anything."

The conversation had diverted from its intended path, speeding towards topics that Roy felt were better remaining untouched. And yet he couldn't find a way out. The earlier plan to hear Ed's side of the story, and then take him back to someplace safe for further interrogation, had been utterly overturned. Without any warning, Roy was plunged into the middle of a large ocean. The figurative waves soaked his gloves, reducing him to nothing more useful than a housefly. He could buzz all he wanted, but all Ed would do was bring out the swatter.

Yet he still had to _try_.

"Fullmetal," he began in a commanding manner. "If you won't listen to me as your colonel, then listen to me as an adult. Your brother scoured the entire city for you when he heard that you were missing. He caught the first train back to Central, and wasted absolutely no time in coming to help the rest of us. Now I understand," Roy's voice rose when Ed started to protest, "that you've been through a lot. We all understand this. It's why we've been putting up with your _crap_ ever since I found you! But this just isn't fair, Ed. You've made Al worry again, and refuse to answer any of my questions. It's equivalent exchange: we helped you, so now it's time for _you_ to help _us_. Understand?"

Ed remained wilfully silent, but there was a slight guilt shining through his outward mask. With every passing second, his faux armour cracked a bit more, until finally he spoke. It was in a quiet and defeated voice, but he spoke.

"He'll be disappointed." His fingers twitched, perhaps wanted to wind together. "I-I can't get his body back. I broke my promise, a-and—a-and I… I can't watch him when he realises what I've done."

That was what Roy had been waiting for. "And what _have _you done?"

Ed stared at him as if to say '_Isn't that obvious?_'. "I've let him down."

"Not yet you haven't," Mustang insisted, reaching out to capture Ed's automail arm in an effort to keep him in place. "You don't have to leave without at least saying goodbye."

Edward yanked his arm back, scowling. "Who says it was a goodbye? You wouldn't even hear it."

"I know a goodbye when I _see_ it." Roy gestured to his broken car. "Now stop acting like a brat, and come to Headquarters with me. We can sort this all out, Fullmetal."

Ed once again shook his head. "I didn't do it. I couldn't kill him properly, and now h-he's _somewhere_! And I'm fucking lost and i-it _looks_ familiar, but I don't know where I am! I don't know what to _do_, Colonel! But…" he fell into a sombre mood. "I know I can't see Al."

Roy resisted the urge to sigh. "Fullmetal. You're not making any sense."

Without any warning, Edward plummeted to the road. The landing scuffed his automail, releasing a few sparks. Immediately, he started to shake, wrapping his arms around himself as if trying to hold himself together. Roy stayed on his feet, not keen on another visit to the cold pavement.

Ed was muttering almost feverishly, glancing up every few moments with imploring eyes that begged Roy to pay attention, or so Roy assumed. It was just about impossible to interpret the ramblings. Ed, maybe comprehending the confusion he was causing, paused in his explanation and continued in a steadier pace.

"Y-you don't know what he did. What h-he did in that _house_," were the words Ed chose to debut with. "You saw th-the blood, but still don't know. How _thick_ are you? Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stu—"

"Just spit it out, Fullmetal," Mustang ordered in his most assertive tone, despite the way his knees were shaking. "Is there something important about that blood?"

Ed looked up at him like a young child being reprimanded by the actions of his younger sibling. "I-I-I… You should _know_! N-no, you won't believe me."

"Try it."

He hung his head in between his legs and trembled violently. "You won't believe me."

"You don't know that. Come on." Roy forced a smile when Ed looked up. "I might surprise you."

Through shuddering breaths, Edward appeared to calm himself fractionally. "That… that blood…" He closed his eyes. "It… It was m-mine, Mustang. It was everywhere. An-and it _hurt_ so bad," at that point, he lowered his voice to a whisper.

Roy opened his mouth to say, '_There's absolutely no way that blood was yours'._ After all, there wasn't a single _physical_ wound on Ed's body. Every injury was contained within his mind—and yet it had somehow evolved to a type of insanity with corporeal substance. It was worrisome knowledge, but at least it allowed Edward to plead mental instability when it came to his trial.

"I knew it," Ed said, effectively interrupting Roy's thoughts. "You don't believe me, bastard. You don't, do you?"

"Well…" Mustang warned himself to tread carefully; Ed was a suspected criminal, and the 'suspected' part of that description was fading by the moment. "It's hard to believe."

"How do I prove it?"

The pure determination in Ed's behaviour came as a strong shock. His emotions were changing as if drawn in and out by indiscernible tides—powerful at one turn, and weak at the next. They were continually wearing away at Roy's conviction, but it was impossible as of yet to determine whatever his conclusion would be.

"_How_ do I _prove it_?" Ed repeated, brows joining at the centre in a display of extreme annoyance.

Roy pressed his lips together. "You don't need to. Just come see Alphonse—we don't need to go to Headquarters just now—and we'll sort this out."

"N-no, I'm serious, Mustang," Ed protested. "It was _horrible_, a-all that—all that _metal _everywhere. I can't stay with him anymore."

"Why the sudden aversion to metal?"

Ed grimaced, and the light in his eyes again died. "He had a knife. It was shiny and cold and sharp and hot and painful and-and Al's the same in that body. N-not really _painful_, but he's… he's cold."

"He's cold?" Roy frowned slightly. "He's always been cold, Ed. That never bothered you before."

"_Listen_!" Ed just about screamed. "You're not _listening_! I-I'm _hurting him_, just by being there! But-but I—a-and I can't control it—I-I-I… _don't want this_!"

Roy watched, frozen, helpless, as the boy pulled on his hair, flattening his bangs and seeming to stretch his _face_ downwards with it. He was still mumbling to himself in a feverish manner, and his attention was continually darting around the deserted street as if scanning for potential threats. Every shadow was an enemy, intent on their lives, and every rodent a sinister omen. Roy couldn't see it—he was too focused on the flash of red hiding just beneath Ed's maltreated hair.

A crimson serpent, forever chasing after its tail.

The Ouroboros.

"Edward…" he said, hardly louder than a breath. "What have you done?"

Mustang wasn't talking about the four or so guards murdered that morning, and Ed seemed to know this. His eyes—so much like a wary, untamed animal—flicked up to Roy's, and held his horrified gaze with one of grim understanding. Then, like curtains over a window, Ed grew defensive. It was a bestial reaction, an instinctive reaction, a damning reaction.

With a nauseating, definite conviction, the Flame alchemist knew he was going to die. Homunculi weren't known for their kindness.

But Ed just wavered to his feet, never looking away from Roy's dread. His blond strands were free from their usual braid, and for the first time the colonel noticed the bloodstained clothes, and the lack of blood.

"Just let me leave, Mustang." Ed must have recognised his considerable advantage, and yet his request was quiet and reserved. "And apologise to Al for me. Don't…" at that, he averted his gaze. "_Please_ don't tell anyone what happened to me. It was an accident."

Roy blinked, and when he opened his eyes, his former-subordinate was gone.

As he slumped against the nearest building in relief, he fancied he could hear two feet—one flesh and the other steel—walking away. But he couldn't see anyone. The road was empty.

**If anyone is interested (concerning last chapter's end note), justaislinn left a review that I thought was really interesting. You should check it out :)**

**But first, _PLEASE_ leave a comment! Writing is much more fun when you know people are actually _reading it!_**


	18. The Final Friday

_**THREE WISE MONKEYS**_

**Hey! pale-blue11 here!**

**Not much time to write. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter!**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or its characters.**

**_CHAPTER EIGHTEEN • The Final Friday_**

It was Friday. Friday. Friday.

"Friday. Friday. Friday. Friday," Ed whispered it repeatedly, over and over, to drum it into his head. He couldn't afford to forget the day. He couldn't afford to forget the time. He couldn't afford to forget his goal.

"Friday. Friday. Friday. Friday."

The early morning breeze was cool against the bare skin of his back and chest, making him sensitive to the rough brick wall he crouched beside. His shirt—as damaged as it was—didn't survive long after his fight with Envy. It was barely holding on during his meeting with Mustang, and that was on Monday, Monday, Monday.

"Friday. Friday. Friday."

The sun was starting to peek over the horizon, but it was hidden behind Central's clutter. Only the slight brightening of the sky overhead alerted Ed to the time, and to the day. Another day meant another chance to find Envy. Another day meant ducking around corners to avoid the military. Another day meant three more deaths.

"Friday. Friday. Friday. Friday. Murder."

Ed was rocking back and forth, his eyes wide and unseeing. He was a moving corpse—a soulless doll—driven only by the day ahead of him. It was—

"Friday. Friday."

—taking too much time. He needed Envy dead _now_! Before the last remnants of his sanity trickled into the bottom of the hourglass and he was unable to truly savour the homunculus' passing. But he had to wait. Wait. Be patient. Be _calm_. He was calm. He was fine. He was _absolutely fucking fine._ Calm. Composed. Patient.

Without his realising it, Ed's left hand had risen to scratch at the dark blemish just beyond his hairline, as if he could rub it out. It felt no different to the rest of his skin, but there was a slight tingling beneath his touch whenever he pressed down. If his nails pierced it, blood would fill the grimy crescents, adding another layer to the filth caked all over his body. And then it would stop, heal, and increase his agitation.

"Friday. Friday. Friday."

He was waiting for the first sign. It was bound to come soon. It always came just before the sun, like clockwork. The first cry of alarm. Ed had heard it three times already—on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. The next one was due on,

"Friday. Friday. Fri—"

And there it was.

A quiet intake of breath, followed by a long pause and a shaky exhale. It was barely audible, but exactly what Ed was listening for. The previous day, a woman had found the victim. She had quickly alerted Ed with a loud shriek. It was too soon to know whether a man or a woman found the body—but if Ed was fast enough, he could find both them and Envy.

He lurched to his feet and staggered into a run, flying through the cold streets. The stone was so cool it felt like ice, and the air was only somewhat warmer. Wet puffs of condensation were stolen away from his mouth as soon as they emerged. It was an incredible feeling, to run at such a speed, but Edward paid it no mind at all. He was occupied with more important things.

Within seconds of hearing that subtle cue, he skidded around the last corner and into a wide street. The houses—none less than two storeys tall—were clean and well maintained. Every window had a row of flowers adorning its ledge, save for one. Beneath that one window laid a pile of dirt and crumpled tulips, scattered in what almost seemed a deliberate manner. Ed briefly spared a glance for the panicked businessman who stood, rigid, just a few doors down from his position, before deeming him useless. He had experienced momentary paralysis often enough to recognise it in another.

Ed skidded to a halt in the middle of the street, somehow managing to remain upright in spite of the sudden stop. Even from that distance, he could clearly see the killing wound, so similar to the ones before it. A single clean swipe across the victim's neck, as if by an automail blade. It really was difficult to believe anyone other than Ed had committed the crime; if such strong evidence had been placed before him when everything was normal, the Major Elric wouldn't have hesitated in declaring guilt.

Not for the first time, he wished that he had _some_ sort of control over his ability. But it was only the fifth day since it surfaced. It was only—

"Friday. Friday. Friday. Friday."

—Friday, and he had plenty of time to perfect himself. To fix himself. To hide himself from the rest of the world. If he was able to turn himself invisible at will, he could conceal himself from the searching eyes he felt locked on his slender back.

When he turned—slowly—the man behind him flinched. As Ed had expected, he had been watching. With dark, shadowed, _suspicious_ eyes, he had been watching. And at the time that their gazes joined, the businessman took a step back. It was almost as if he expected Edward to attack _him_ next, and the monster he had become urged Ed to fulfil that expectation.

If it was any number of days earlier, that thought may have filled him with nausea and alarm. But all he felt was a cold sort of detachment. Nothing mattered past Envy. Not even Al, and the promise he'd broken. Not even the human in front of him, shaking and pale. Not even what passed as his own life.

"Ah-are you…?" the man asked hesitantly. Ed had to marvel at the bravery it took him to say those two words.

Shaking his head mutely, Ed attempted a smile. "No," he whispered. He couldn't raise his voice any higher than that, and immediately fell back into his rhythm of murmured 'Friday's.

And then he left.

**XxX**

Roy sighed deeply and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had always hated paperwork, but was starting to prefer it to his current assignment. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get those… _images_ out of his head. A week ago, when he was forced to stare into that blank face and pretend that Edward was still behind it, he would have said that the situation couldn't _possibly_ get any worse. But it could. And it had.

A homunculus.

As per Ed's parting request, Roy had kept that to himself. Though many times Alphonse had checked in at his office, the colonel hadn't breathed a word of his latest—and most important—information.

He wished he could say that he was truly doing it for his youngest subordinate, but late nights and good alcohol had forced him to confront the real reason—he was scared. Roy didn't want to be the one to tell Al that his brother was a monster. It wasn't his job! His obligation, perhaps, but not one that he was determined to fulfil. Ed's plea to keep silent was just an easy way out.

But that didn't make it easy in its entirety. Nothing ever was.

Roy felt, himself, like the serpent etched into Edward's skin. A serpent that was forever crawling in the one direction, swallowing up its tracks and all purpose in favour of moving forward. But was he genuinely moving forward if there were no signs of progress? Again, a week ago, his answer would have been _very_ different.

"Sir."

They were looking for him. For Edward. The great Fullmetal alchemist, who had stooped so far as to murder. And Roy had no doubt that they'd find him. After all, the deaths were so predictable it was an embarrassment to have not caught him already.

One in the morning.

One in the afternoon.

One in the evening, just before dark.

Three generations of daylight. Three generations of a family. There was no doubt that that was planned, which begged the question:

Did Edward _want_ to be found?

"_Sir_."

If so, it wouldn't be so hard. Alphonse, to the extent of Roy's knowledge, hadn't stopped searching since that pivotal Monday—the start of the next arc in what promised to be a wretched story. He came to Headquarters every night, knowing that all of Roy's team would still be there. They were always there, it seemed. And every night, Al would begin with:

"Have you heard anything?"

And Roy would answer with:

"No."

And then every night, Al would leave again.

Cigarette ash on his desk alerted Roy to Havoc's continued presence. By the time he had noticed, a considerable amount had formed a tiny pile and singed a small hole into whatever paperwork Mustang was ignoring. The cigarette threatened to topple out of his mouth as Havoc gave a grim smile.

"Sir," he said, to be sure he had the colonel's attention. "It's morning. We've had another report."

Roy took a moment to consider those words, then rubbed a hand down his face. It was morning? He hadn't slept at all. "Who is it this time?"

"Most of this comes from Breda." Havoc held out a thin stack of papers, talking even as Mustang flicked through them. "Martha Shlocks, mother to three, and grandmother to one. She lived in one of those big houses just north of here—you know the ones, Colonel?"

Roy just nodded. Maybe he should take up smoking—he'd heard that it had _wonderful_ calming effects.

"Her daughter moved to a town near Dublith in 1909, but she's irrelevant. Jason Shlocks, the father of Mrs Shlocks' granddaughter, is most likely to be the next victim, though I suggest placing William Shlocks under watch as well. If we can detain him at that point, we can keep the girl out of it."

"Mm." Roy laid the papers down on his desk. "If you put half as much effort into all of your reports as you did that one, you'd be promoted before you knew it."

In any other circumstances, Havoc might have beamed at the praise. But a room filled with stressed and lethargic military personnel didn't provide much of a celebratory atmosphere.

"All of the second murders have been committed between twelve-hundred hours and fifteen-hundred hours."

"And what is it now?"

Jean checked his watch. "Half-past six, sir."

Roy hummed as if ascertaining something he had already suspected. "I thought so. It's too early to be awake."

Havoc was quiet for enough time to stir up the first feelings of trepidation in Roy. When finally his lips parted for more than another cigarette, Mustang knew he wouldn't want to hear what came out of them.

"Sir…" Jean avoided Roy's eyes just as much as Roy avoided his. "About… about the chief—"

"Get back to work, Second Lieutenant," Roy interrupted coldly. He had been right. "Hawkeye may not be here now, but that doesn't give you an excuse to be slacking. Organise someone to follow Mr Shlocks."

Havoc shot him a tired grin and a lazy salute. "Sir."

"And tell me when you've done it."

"Sure thing, boss."

But no matter what they did, Jason Shlocks would be dead by mid-afternoon.

**XxX**

Ed knew that he was being led on by Envy. He knew he was being framed. It was nearing dusk and already Friday's newspapers had been read and discarded. He sat beside one now, trying to avoid the thick, printed letters on the front page.

_EDWARD ELRIC, FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST, SUSPECTED IN THIS MORNING'S TRAGEDY_

The article was even more condemning.

Few papers had begun circulating since the afternoon casualty, but they would be everywhere by the time of the little girl's death. Yes, Ed had solved Envy's macabre riddle. On Wednesday, it had become apparent—and that only made it so much harder to corner the older homunculus. In the morning, before the new family was selected, Ed had the advantage. But even by afternoon, he had fallen far behind in the race. That was how long it took the military police to find the next victims, and at that time it was too late. Too many times, Edward had watched from afar as Envy—wearing Ed's face—tore into civilians and authority alike. There were rarely survivors, hence the 'suspected' in each headline.

But Ed was getting antsy. He wanted to do _something_! And why was he waiting at all? Why couldn't he jump into the fray and help? No, not even help—he just wanted Envy, and anyone else be damned.

He got to his feet stiffly, a strong foreboding weighing down his bones. He knew, somehow, that the coming fight would be different. It was almost time for it to begin, just as it did every other night. Just after sunset, a figure would approach the military personnel in custody of the child. It was a figure with golden hair, golden eyes, and silver limbs—it wasn't Edward, but they couldn't see that. There were never any reports afterwards.

It was decidedly a miracle that his ability had seemed to kick in right at the time that he wanted it. After all, he was a fugitive, wanted by the state, and there was no way a criminal like him would have been allowed to traverse the streets so casually. But when no one saw him, Ed was free to do as he pleased.

So he stood in the centre of the footpath, disturbed by none as they subconsciously avoided his prone form, and listened for the cries of a disturbed girl. It was always a girl, and she always asked the same questions of her protectors: _"Where's Mummy? Where's Daddy?"_

He heard them.

**XxX**

A new strategy.

That was what they needed, and that was what they did. It had only taken four attempts before it became apparent that their previous plan just _didn't work_.

Many ideas had been thrown around during the afternoon meeting. It had been held in one of the larger conference rooms—apparently the Fuhrer had just as much interest in apprehending their errant alchemist as Roy did—but even with the extra space, there weren't enough seats and many men had taken to leaning against the walls.

It was there that the new scheme had been birthed.

Mustang glanced out of his office window, spotting several snipers crouched on the fortress-like walls. Even though he was the leader of the little capture, he hadn't been able to persuade those men to stand down—not without revealing Ed's secret. And who would believe him anyway? It was a hesitation that would most likely endanger those men, but never had Ed's being a homunculus come up in his final speech. How could he tell so many people that they may not return to their beds that night?

No, that was ridiculous. A truly detrimental way of thinking. Yes, Edward was a homunculus, but that homunculus was also Edward. And there was _no fucking way_ Ed would kill so many…

Roy gritted his teeth so hard they seemed ready to break. Even his mental justifications didn't work. Going along with the belief that the sixteen-year-old immortal wouldn't kill was _stupid_ considering why they were there in the first place.

"Major," Roy called one of the men assigned to him over to the window. "I'm going down there to wait. They might need me."

The young major's voice wavered uncertainly when he said, "Sir? Why… Why would they need you?"

Mustang didn't reply to the nervous question. "Just tell anyone who asks where I'll be. And stay here."

"Yes, sir."

His boots beat a nice tempo on the polished floors. It was the only sound; the building was all but abandoned in caution, and by Roy's request. He was, essentially, in charge of controlling his subordinate, and Fuhrer King Bradley had respected his need to oversee the situation himself. Mustang hadn't mentioned that his gloves were probably the only sure way to eliminate the Fullmetal alchemist if things went wrong.

Fuck, he hoped they didn't.

From the ground floor, the snipers were all but invisible. Unless one had prior knowledge, there would have been no reaction save for, perhaps, a prickling on the back of the neck. Roy felt it as he walked over to the small group lying or sitting in the centre of one of the grassed areas. The girl stared up at him in wonder with large brown eyes and an innocent, if confused, expression. Mustang schooled his features into a warm smile, and knelt down beside her. Nothing had been explained to the child—to do that just seemed too cruel—and so she had no tears, no worries.

"What's your name?" Roy asked as a way to distract both him and her. The sun was going down; he expected the floodlights to appear at any minute.

"Lucy," the girl replied, a hand making its way into her mouth. "I'm four."

"Four?" He watched her nod. "You're very tall for your age."

"Daddy said," she continued, in that characteristic gasping-for-breath manner that all young children adopted, "that I'm gonna be a princess."

"If you're a princess, can I be your prince?"

Lucy giggled. "_No_! You're too old!"

"So I am," Roy agreed just as the lights came on. A strong dread settled in the pit of his stomach—if he couldn't stop it, Lucy would be dead before her carriage turned back into a pumpkin.

Her lips turned down slightly, and she looked away before speaking again. "Mr Policeman?"

"Yes?"

"Where's my daddy?"

Elicia had asked him the same thing not too long ago. But at least Elicia had a mother to go running to—how could he tell such a young kid that she was an orphan? She probably wouldn't understand.

"He's coming, sweetheart," Mustang lied. It wasn't quite worth it for the way her eyes lit up, no matter how happy she seemed. He didn't want to be there when she heard the truth.

"Mustang."

Instantly, the temperature dropped and a shiver ran down the colonel's spine. That word hadn't come out of Lucy's mouth, nor did it belong to any of the three soldiers assigned to babysit the girl. They were scanning the large courtyard for something they couldn't see. Something they _wouldn't_ see.

"Mustang," Ed repeated. He was behind him, Roy realised, but no shadow save his own was cast. "You need to step away from it."

"It?" Roy echoed, sounding much braver than he felt. "She's not an object, Fullmetal."

"She's not human either, _Colonel_," he replied in a scornful fashion. "So I suggest you move before I move you."

Roy moulded his voice into steel. "And _I_ suggest you leave her alone."

"Don't you remember Monday?" Ed threatened. "It wouldn't take much to kill you."

"But you won't." Roy waited, to see if he would get an answer. "Isn't that right, Fullmetal?"

Ed kept him in suspense for less than ten seconds. But those ten seconds, while not seeming much, felt like an eternity. Mustang couldn't help but fear that he'd soon have an automail blade between his shoulders.

"Those snipers…" Edward suddenly sounded very young, and very afraid. "They're for me, aren't they? Did you tell them—"

"No. And if you leave now, they won't have to shoot a single bullet." Roy didn't bother asking how Ed knew they were there.

Lucy watched the exchange with wide eyes. Roy wondered what she saw—could she see Ed, even though he didn't have a shadow? Uninvited, the memory of those cold minutes he spent leaning against the house Edward left him beside that Monday night broke into his thoughts. And it finally made sense—those footsteps of which he could hear, but not catch sight. Edward was a mons—_homunculus_—so he must have a trait similar to the others'.

Roy suspected that Ed's was—

"Invisibility, right?"

Ed hesitated. "What?"

"You're invisible right now. You don't have a shadow, that's how I know." Roy resisted the urge to turn around, knowing there was no point. He laughed, quietly. "Isn't that ironic?"

"… How?"

"It's _you_, the Fullmetal brat," Mustang said wryly. Lucy had started to back away, and if he was smart, he would too. "You're not really the type to hide."

"People change."

"You're not people anymore."

Roy stiffened, wondering if he would be able to signal Hawkeye before his head departed his neck. But nothing came.

**XxX**

Ed didn't know what to say. He wanted to protest, to disagree with what Roy had said, but he couldn't find anything to protest, nor anything to disagree with. Envy was still searching for him, but judging by the brown eyes that wandered all over his face—never truly settling—Ed wasn't yet visible. He knew that the little girl was Envy in the same way he had known Envy to be at Lab 5 earlier that week. It was almost instinct, but Ed baulked at calling it something so… _normal._ There was nothing _normal_ about it.

There was nothing _normal_ about him.

'_You're not people anymore_.'

And it seemed others knew that, too.

"_Please_, Roy," he tried begging. Mustang didn't know what he was getting into; he didn't know that the girl he was protecting wouldn't hesitate to slip a knife into his forehead. And if Ed mentioned that, he had no doubt that Envy would do such a thing. He just… He _had_ to get Roy away before he became another casualty.

But how?

"_Please_, Mustang, just walk away."

"And what will you do if I leave?"

Mustang must have taken Ed's thoughtful silence to mean guilt, as his mouth tightened slightly and his shoulders tensed again. But no matter what excuse he used, Ed couldn't talk the colonel out of his mindset. If he didn't concentrate, Edward was afraid he might also fall into such traps. He almost had, several times.

'_Friday. Friday. Friday._'

_Don't say it aloud_.

In Ed's moment of indecision, the colonel reached out a hand to the young girl. Perhaps he thought that by placing himself in front of her, he could keep her safe. Perhaps he thought he was doing her a favour.

Perhaps.

Ed would never know for certain.

It wasn't the first time blood stained the government land, and Ed wasn't naïve enough to believe it would be the last. Mustang looked up in shock from his sudden relocation to the ground, staring dumbly at the red discolouring the once-perfect lawn. It was grotesque—it didn't belong—it shouldn't have _been_ there!

More splattered onto Roy's shiny black boots—bright on dark. It was a bit of a relief, Edward supposed, that it wasn't the colonel's blood leaking out of the man's lower abdomen, as his body wouldn't have healed.

Envy, still wearing the façade of a young girl, wasted no time in releasing a piercing shriek and leaping away; there was little chance of anyone blaming a four-year-old child—especially when they showed such a distressed reaction. Ed would be receiving all the blame. Even with the only scraps of shirt he wore soaked in crimson, he would be blamed for the injury.

_The Fullmetal alchemist attacked the Flame alchemist._

The proof of his theory came in the form of a well-aimed bullet. It lodged itself in his lower calf with so much precision Ed had no choice but to admit that he was within the Hawkeye's sight. He was visible again.

Perfect timing.

The tiny ball of lead worked its way out of his leg and fell somewhere near Roy's ankle, instantly lost among the greenery. Two more—two that Ed hadn't even noticed—joined it soon after, and he began to hear the first whispers from atop the Headquarter's walls. They had hit him, right? Then why wasn't he in pain? Even the Hawkeye herself hadn't forced him to his knees.

It was exactly the type of situation Edward had been wanting to avoid—hell, he _still_ wanted to avoid it, as impossible as that may be. He had wanted to leave before matters grew out of hand. Though he was a disgraced soldier after Envy's actions, at least they thought he was human. It was better for them to _call_ him a monster, rather than him actually _be _one.

He met Roy's confused gaze for a moment, reading the struggle to understand occurring just beyond his eyes. Ed's stomach plummeted to his feet. Even after he had _saved his fucking life_, the colonel couldn't decide whether to trust him or not. And then, as clear as if he had heard it, Edward understood what was _really_ going on in Mustang's head.

It wasn't a choice between trust and suspicion.

It was a choice between running away, and signalling his men to shoot.

It was a choice between risking Ed's escape, and risking his own life.

And knowing the colonel's guilt, the verdict would be an easy one.

It didn't really affect Edward. Not really. It wouldn't leave so much as a scratch on his physical body even if bullets were to tear him to shreds—and his mental health was teetering so close to the edge he wondered if he had not already reached the bottom. So why did he fear the snipers so much?

"Friday. Friday. Friday," he whispered the calming mantra so quietly that he barely heard it. He was once the Fullmetal alchemist, a child _marvelled_ at for his quick thinking.

_Child._

Envy.

Envy had reached the safety of the military building. His—or her—thin arms trembled as they clutched a soldier's leg with perhaps slightly more strength than could be expected from his delicate form. Edward couldn't reach her without the guns firing, and that couldn't happen. Mustang, struck by uncertainty, hadn't moved from the grass, and… and Ed _wouldn't_ leave him there!

"Colonel," he spoke quickly, hyper-aware of the people surrounding them. He couldn't help but notice the slow and steady breaths of the gunmen, the tiny squeal of metal on metal when they adjusted their angle. "Colonel, you have to get out. If they shoot, they might hit you."

Mustang's features drew into a tense frown at the brusque concern, but he stood nonetheless. "And you? Are you going to disappear again, Fullmetal? Because we can't have a serial killer running around Central."

"I'm not a fucking serial killer!" Ed glared around warily when his declaration—though probably not the words themselves—earned him more attention from above. "I haven't killed anyone," he reiterated in a lower voice. "Not a single person. Not _one_ single _fucking_ person, and this is how you react?"

With a fierce emotion, one he couldn't describe, flowing through his veins, Ed found to his extreme annoyance that he was close to tears. But he wouldn't let them drop. He wouldn't let them show. That would have been too humiliating.

"I-I haven't done _a-anything_! I just wanted to go!" he told the bewildered colonel. "Did you know I was already past Edmiritbu when I heard what was going on? That's… That's, like, _a hundred kilometres_ or something. Maybe more? I dunno. Fuck. I was going to Xerxes. I didn't wanna come _back_, for hell's sake."

Finally, Roy interrupted the monolog, much to Ed's relief. "What did you hear was going on?"

"What the hell do you think?" Ed hid his face beneath his automail, willing his eyes to dry. "I heard that _I _was in Central, killing old people and babies. Do you understand how fucked up that is?"

Roy's frown deepened. "There were reports—"

"O-ho!" the homunculus proclaimed sarcastically. "There were _reports_? Tell me: how do you get your head so far up your ass?"

"Watch what you say, Fullmetal," Roy snapped. His fingers looked ready to do the same.

"Or _what_?" Ed yelled in retaliation, ignoring the sting of a bullet the way one ignores a fly. His anger had flown to the surface, overshadowing all reason. "You'll court-martial me? You'll _kill_ me? Fine! I'll help you!"

Roy, impressively, stood his ground as his charge brought his hands together and clapped. Ed barely noticed the increase in shots; he was too incensed to worry about Mustang's welfare. The man could take care of himself—that much was sure.

His traditional blade erupted from his forearm, but it was somehow sharper, longer, more intimidating. Good. That was what he wanted. Let it be big enough that the snipers wouldn't have to squint! Let it be so terrible it shone in their nightmares for years to come! When they wake up in the middle of the night, panting and covered in cold swear, let them remember the monster they tried to exterminate like a troublesome rat! Let them remember the silence! The sound of blood on grass, dirt, skin, metal! Let them remember the dark of night! The light of automail—of fresh crimson liquid the colour of a tainted Philosopher's stone!

Let them remember Edward Elric, the Fullmetal alchemist!

The People's alchemist!

The homunculus!

…No. He wanted them to forget.

He wanted them to forget, but his next actions ascertained that he would always be immortalised in their minds.

In a swift, yet uncannily accurate, downward motion, Ed drew the edge along the inside of his arm. The pain was dulled almost to the point of non-existence. Unlike that hellish week at 32 Seaview Road, the wound didn't send a line of fire streaking from his fingers to his shoulder—in fact, it was quite the opposite. The red sparks that immersed his forearm and cleaned away any remaining blood were warm and prickly, like an old and well-loved blanket. They left his skin tingling and faintly numb.

But it wasn't enough. It wasn't his arm that was suffering from the unwanted attention. It was his head, his stomach, his chest, _his torso, his neck! His eyes! His ears!_ There were so many eyes on him! So many soldiers _staring_—at least two for every gun!—and nowhere to hide!

Thoughts of Envy and the pain Ed wanted to inflict on him were lost in the confusion. Edward tried clawing his eyes out—they grew back. He tried to rip out his throat—the high, keening screams still came. He tried to cut open his chest, to release the building pressure—it knit itself back together. No matter what he tried, it didn't work. It went past proving a point. His spectators obviously understood what he was attempting to portray, but Ed couldn't stop.

All of the thoughts he had lost after his time in the hospital came rushing into his head, accompanied by a howl of his own creation. Pulled from the air—from an almost infinite amount of space—they fought against being contained in the cramped vessel of his head, expanding and contracting, and condensing into a single remembered revelation.

He _really_ wanted to die.

He _really was_ going to die. That filled him with a deformed sort of relief and fear. Yet another chimera he couldn't separate—it would have to stay how it was.

His movements decreased. Slowed. They came close to stopping fully, but Edward resisted. He didn't want to stop—it wasn't him who clasped his arms captive! Not now—now that he'd _finally_ found out where his hunger had gone.

Whatever held his wrists lifted him almost completely off of the ground; his toes only barely dragged against it. What had once been a luscious green lawn had suffered from a sudden transmutation, transforming it to a squelching, red mess. The squelches weren't the only noises Ed heard when he finally quietened his screams. There were his own small whines, like that of a dog denied a treat, and a solitary word, repeated again and again.

Shapes and colours returned as Edward's eyes reformed, gradually. First, he noticed the scarlet staining his bangs, and then his gaze moved beyond. And back. Because what he saw just wasn't possible.

Ed had never received a new name, not like the other homunculi. He wasn't christened after any of the seven deadly sins. He was just… Edward Elric. Fullmetal. Through a subconscious intention, pure laziness, or a simple disdain for the act of choosing a new one, he hadn't changed his name. It just didn't seem necessary, and it wasn't as if he could narrow himself into just one of the seven categories the other homunculi followed. He lusted after knowledge, was gluttonous in demanding and devouring the energy of those around him. He was prideful past the point of stupidity, slothful in his desire to understand others, and wrathful towards his unjust past. He envied those who were able to live quiet, calm, _normal_ lives. But most of all, he was greedy. There was so much information he had yet to absorb—so many books that remained untouched by his mismatched hands—that even after resigning himself to an unusual death, he lamented the loss of that learning. His last thoughts were not of the brother he was abandoning, but of the research he never conducted.

Perhaps that was why Alphonse appeared before him. There was no other explanation—at least not one that Ed could find. He was somehow brought forward by Ed's chaotic thoughts. Or maybe it was a kind of familial telepathy?

The word, echoing as it passed Al's non-existent lips, repeated over and over: "Brother! Brother! Brother!" It grew more frantic as Ed stared into the glowing orbs in his helmet. He had never understood where that light was coming from.

The two brothers, reunited once more—whether the relief was mirrored in both of them was up to debate. There was a strange sort of irony at play in that moment; between them, they formed a complete being composed of both a body and a soul, but not a surplus of either. None of the souls in Ed's body counted as his own.

Alphonse's appearance had calmed down the entirety of the Headquarters—even the panicked people milling about inside had stilled to peer out windows—and the effect he had on Ed was even stronger. Ed felt as if he couldn't move, that he wasn't _allowed_ to move, until his brother gave permission. It was his penance for failing him, and for making their situation a hundred times worse in the process.

Ed didn't realise he was speaking until his own words broke through the white noise in his head. "I'm sorry, Al. I'm sorry," he uttered the words without pause for breath, because of course, he had no need for it. The apologies rushed out of him—all of them, contained within those few simple whispers. There were too many to count.

But then he paused.

And he waited.

And he thought

And the answer came.

It was a bittersweet answer, one that would no doubt have Alphonse cursing his name and screaming murder at his memory. Ed knew his younger brother would hate him, but he was selfish. He was weary, and he had already decided that he was going to end himself even before Al jumped into the equation.

The way Edward saw it, it was a win-win. But Al wouldn't see it from the perspective of the monster—he'd see it from the side of the saint, and consequently fall further from the path of the virtuous.

Ed had been fast as a human, but Al was always faster, and his endurance level was consistently—boundlessly—higher. While Ed had never wanted their final spar to be conducted in the midst of a hostile audience—he'd never even imagined it!—he found he had no choice. Like many things.

It was faster, stronger, more brutal than any sparring session they'd ever done. No sooner had Al recovered from Ed's initial strike than Ed was there again, kicking his breastplate with enough strength to break his ankle and send the armour flying. He landed awkwardly, trying to compensate for the shattered joint as it pulled itself back together with a series of cracks. Al lay at the end of a rut carved into the previously immaculate lawns. Clods of dirt and grass fell to the ground as he took to his feet again, and Ed could sense the wariness radiating from his younger brother. Maybe he understood.

Alphonse raised his fists. He _definitely _understood. He was an Elric.

Ed leapt forward, a blur of gold and red and tanned skin and automail. That was all anyone could discern before he hit the suit of armour head-on. It released a mighty _clang!_ that reverberated around Central and rattled people's windows for several long seconds—or at least, they seemed long to Edward. After the speed at which he'd prepared the reaction, it was taking _forever_ to begin.

His hands rested in symmetrical dents on either side of Al's chest plate, and together they toppled to the earth. But they never made it all the way.

Familiar, calming, _wonderful_, damning blue lightning dimmed the brightness of the floodlights; a few shattered in a sea of orange sparks due to the intensity. Just as it had once brought the sun within reach, it now pushed the light away. Ed had no need for it, in any case. He would be gone soon.

In a flash that would leave many blinking for days, the Elric brothers disappeared.

**XxX**

Everything was white. It was a heavy white, pressing down on his armour until he had to struggle to raise his head. Everything—everywhere—was coated in a paleness more spectacular and empty than freshly fallen snow, as even freshly fallen snow contains imperfections. This, the well known void, _was_ that awful perfection.

And that was what made it so horrible.

Alphonse had been there before. The memories came flooding in, curling around the leather of his gloves like ghosts, tugging the fingers away from each other. He couldn't feel it, and yet the sensation sent shudders running through his soul.

Then they dived in.

For a wonderful moment, nothing happened. He was beautifully empty—one could even go so far as to say _calm_—like in those brief minutes before the storm, when all the rain and hail vanishes and a treacherous bliss falls over the land. Ten seconds—no! Two seconds. That was how long Alphonse's bliss lasted.

And then came a great pressure.

It expanded within him, scrabbling at the smooth sheen of his body, glancing over the blood seal with _too little care_! The black hands waved at him from inside, outside, in front, behind. From the Gate—oh, how he didn't want to see it again—more were created. Formed. Born from the very depths of his personal hell.

A melody played, adding to the cacophony and bringing it to a deafening conclusion. But the song continued. The hands swayed, lazily, as if lulled into some sort of sleep. Alphonse didn't understand; he heard nothing soothing in the singer's voice. It was small and shaky—frail—and feeble. For a long while, he couldn't hear any words. But the tune! Oh, he'd heard it before, no doubt! He'd listened to its bastardised form, and recently, too. It was at the forefront of his memories—yet with all the added experiences gifted to him from the Gate, that forefront was more like a no-man's-land, stretching for miles and miles. In the hush, he fought to recognise it once more.

'_Humpty Dumpty had a great fall_…' the line broke off in a whisper, as if the vocalist had been singing for hours and his voice couldn't keep up. '_All the king's horses and all the king's men_...'

Alphonse finished in a horrified murmur, "Couldn't put Humpty together again." He turned, suddenly having no trouble in finding the mystery songbird. "Is that right, Brother? You were humming it the other day."

'_Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall… Humpty Dumpty had a_—'

"Brother!" Al felt like he was going to explode. Even the stroking palms retreated, leaving him slightly empty. They had left, and so had the well of all that knowledge.

Edward sat in front of something large and grey. It was a giant slab of rock, suspended in mid-air. Intricate carvings detailed the surface—alchemy symbols so archaic their modern meanings were vague at best.

No one ever had any trouble believing that Alphonse existed in an unfeeling body, unable to experience even the slightest amount of pain. After all, metal had no nerve endings. He didn't have a nervous system.

But they couldn't be further from the truth.

He hurt. He hurt so badly. It had started as a dull ache, and had grown over the time of Ed's disappearance, until it felt like a shard of glass wedged inside his helmet. It wasn't a physical ache, and that was what made it so potent. It was mental; no matter what he tried, he couldn't get away.

And seeing his brother again—and like that—it was almost more than he could take.

"Brother," he repeated, softer and kinder than his earlier outburst. Ed kept his eyes trained on him, appearing attentive and much calmer. It was a startling contrast; different hues and tones of red clung to his skin and hair, but he looked completely unperturbed by his outward form. "Brother, please listen to me. Please tell me what's going on. Yo-you have a voice now! You can tell me… wh-whatever it is you have to tell me! Isn't that right, Brother?"

Ed answered in a slow nod. He seemed entranced, distracted. His eyes were darting about, as if he were searching for something. Al waited for as long as he thought possible, and then longer. A full total of ten seconds passed without so much as a single word between them. Finally, Edward's focus settled on a specific area, right behind Al. He took in a shaky breath, then let it out. Without looking away from the source of his discomfort, Ed spoke. "There it is. I was afraid I didn't have one anymore."

"Have one…?" Alphonse creaked around towards the endless empty space at his back.

But it wasn't empty anymore.

Once, the doorway might have been magnificent—a truly awe-inspiring piece of art in every sense of the word. Yet time has a way of changing even the most incredible structures into unimportant specks of dust, destined to be blown away by the passage of a new era. The crumbling stone Alphonse saw still held a small fraction of its integrity, but it was clear that it was merely waiting to crumble into a fine powder. Already, a copper stain—like rust—had spread over the top section of the monument, and complete sections were missing in obvious places: the highest right corner, where the tendril-like designs reached; the intricate script occupying the motif; the very centre, where the gap yawned open to display an unsettling black.

"That's my Gate," Ed told him matter-of-factly, as if its corroded façade was nothing to be worried about. "It's what lets us do alchemy. This one's yours."

And Al turned back to see Edward pointing at the proud doorway he had first seen. If he had a human body, he might have licked his lips nervously.

"Brother, I…" he began. Al had to clench his fists to quell their urge to fidget. "I don't understand. What happened to yours?"

Edward's mouth tightened infinitesimally. "Homunculi aren't supposed to have Gates. It's dying, and when it's all gone, I'll… I won't let it go to waste."

_That_ was more like the Edward Elric Alphonse knew. He knew the prices, the costs, of power such as alchemy—after paying that price, he couldn't use just half. But his next words interrupted Al's thoughts with a violence that betrayed the calm voice they were spoken in.

"Is it like a dream?"

Oh, how Alphonse wished he could frown in confusion. "Huh?"

"Is it like being in a dream?" Edward repeated. His expression was open and curious, ready for new knowledge. "You can see everything, but you can't feel it. Is it like being in a dream?"

"You know I can't dream, Brother," Al reminded him gently. "I can't remember what it feels like."

The space between Ed's brows crinkled. "Are you sure?"

Alphonse nodded haltingly. "Fairly sure. A dream—"

"No. Nightmare."

"… Fine," he acquiesced. "A nightmare isn't like this."

A smile stole up Edward's face, slowly. He seemed pleased. "I'm gonna make a decision, Al," he said, quite sure of himself. "It could be my last one. But then it might not be. It's funny, thinking about that, isn't it?"

Al shook his head. "No. That's not funny at all, Brother."

"Yes, it is." Ed stood up gracefully and took a few steps forward, until there were only a few metres between them. "You'll see. You can't now, but you will eventually. Let me explain everything."

What could one say to that? Al didn't know. Though he was usually so adept at dealing with his brother, there was nothing he could say! The unsettling white had cut off all of his thoughts and left him even emptier than before.

"Let me…" Ed restated. "Let me explain what happened. To me. With Envy."

"Envy?"

"I-I didn't know it was him. I don't think it _was_ him at first," he continued as if Al had never said anything. "H-he—a-and Colt—they… they killed me." Edward watched Alphonse, waiting for a response. It was eerie, creepy, that while his voice shook with emotion, Ed's eyes remained dry. "They killed me. Over and over. That… that _blood_ in the room w-was all mine. Mustang wouldn't believe me, but then I don't believe Mustang either. There was a needle, Al, and i-it made me feel really… _heavy_. It fucking _sucked_, Al—I-I couldn't do _anything_! And-and-and it _hurt really fucking bad_! H-he said th-that I was like _wine_ a-and… Al you scare me so much. I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

Al stayed silent, hoping that Ed would continue. Hoping that Ed would explain _why_ he was… afraid of him. But he was wearing that blank, unreadable expression again, and Al had to wonder if he was the only one hiding behind a helmet.

There was a sound like thunder behind him; more of the Gate was falling. It appeared to break Edward out of his reverie, and that tiny smile once again returned.

"I'm not supposed to have that," he said, pointing at the crumbling stone. "It was supposed to disappear when I became a monster. But Hohenheim let me keep it. His blood was the Philosopher's stone, and then we were. He really _was_ a bastard."

"Brother." Alphonse tried to keep his attention from the deteriorating behemoth behind him. "Why are we here?"

Ed shrugged and stepped forward again. "The bastard colonel could've gotten shot."

"No." The helmet swung from side to side. "That's not true, Brother. I can tell when you're lying."

"I want to help you." Punctuating Ed's reply, more of his doorway collapsed. "I wanna finish this while I can. While I can. I'm not gonna jump, Al." He threw a fist out ahead of him, bumping Al's breastplate in their usual manner. "And I'm not gonna ask you to push me."

"Brother, what're you talking about?"

"The edge's falling to pieces under my feet." When the corners of Ed's lips lifted upwards, Al could see the thin trail of tears lining his eyes. His voice caught in his non-existent throat, and it was all the armour could do to keep standing. He wanted to repeat his earlier question: '_Brother, what're you talking about?_' but nothing would come out. He wanted to move back, away from Ed's touch, but he couldn't. Edward just continued to talk, "I don't _have_ to jump; there won't be anything left to stand on, soon. I can just fall, and isn't that easiest? Al… _I'm so tired_. And I'm…" Ed took a shaky breath, and came forward completely. His arms wrapped as far as they could around Al's resistant body. "I wish you could feel this. I'm so sorry."

"Brother?"

There was a loud cracking noise originating from the older Gate as strange vibrations started shuddering through Alphonse. The shaking increased in speed, faster and faster, until a pure, metallic note rang through the open space. Ed's grip never loosened—if anything, it grew tighter—and he pressed his face into Al's metal chest.

"B-Brother?" Alphonse asked, his voice shrill and unsettled. "What's going on?"

Ed strengthened his hold, and wonderfully—_miraculously!_—Al felt it. He felt the pressure of his brother's arms wrapped possessively around him. And it was amazing. It was the first physical sensation he'd experienced in more than four years—if he didn't know any better, he may have thought it imaginary, a mere wishful illusion. But he doubted that he could recreate such an exquisite sense just from memory.

He could feel _warmth_.

And it didn't faded. It grew. It grew until the warmth was no longer comfortable—until it _hurt_—and still Alphonse revelled in it. Because it was the first time he had been uncomfortable in years! His faux skin glowed and morphed slightly as if under some incredible heat, raising blisters along Ed's arms and cheek. And then, an odd tingling began in Al's hands—the first pins-and-needles for _so long_!—as well as a sound he couldn't identify.

Before he knew it, his arm was gone.

"E-Ed!" he cried as his knees buckled, the left one disappeared from below the joint. Edward didn't let go; he sank to the ground with his brother, a contented smile on his lips. "Brother—_what's happening_?"

Ed seemed to nuzzle into Al's dissolving body, as the Gate crashed to shards in the background. "I'm sorry, Alphonse. Please forget about this."

**XxX**

He was trapped yet again.

There were no walls surrounding him. No bloodied mattresses or tables. But nevertheless, Edward was trapped.

And he'd never felt so _happy_.

Their journey—their wonderful, terrible journey—was over at last! Despite the metal appendages weighing down his right shoulder and left leg, his non-existent soul was light. He could have flown away, if he'd had the will to do so.

But there was something more he needed to do.

His own Gate was nothing more than dust—no, less. It was more like a fine powder, and it disintegrated rapidly under his golden watch. The fragments were smaller than sand, and yet still shrinking. Ed walked over and crouched, marvelling at the display for a moment before he reached forward and gathered some of the dust into the palm of his hand. It reminded him of ash.

"You did it."

Edward nodded once and dipped a metal finger into what remained of his alchemy. His life. "I did."

The other's voice was easily distinguishable as inhuman, and yet Ed couldn't help but hear his little brother's high-pitched tone louder than the rest. The Gate seemed to talk in many dialects, genders, ages—while at the same time being just one.

"And what will you do now, homunculus?" it asked, and finally it revealed itself. Soundlessly, it pulled away from the void—out of nothing—and stood before Alphonse's doorway, as if to guard it. "You have no alchemy. You—"

"Have no way to get back, I know." Ed had known it even before his hands had joined, so many eons ago during his and Al's final spar. He had dragged them to the nothingness in order to fulfil his half of the promise, and consequently damned himself to an eternity in yet another place he didn't belong. But he had chosen it, and that fact alone brought him a sense of peace.

The Gatekeeper made a noise of amused curiosity, as if Ed were a child who had somehow stumbled onto the executioner's block. "Hmm? You knew that, and came regardless?"

"You're the 'Truth'," Ed replied with a small snort, "The 'All', right? Don't you know everything about me?"

That blinding grin—somehow even more blinding than their snowy backdrop—swung from side to side. "I belong to Alphonse Elric. His brother is of no importance to me. Your Truth has died along with you."

Edward nodded in understanding. A tiny, satisfied smile graced his lips. He might have failed in bringing the sin of Envy to a bloody, final end, but he had completed his oldest goal. "Please," he said, and straightened up as the last of his Gate vanished forever. "Can I see him? Can I see Alphonse?"

The Truth dipped its head slightly. "That's up to you. I will not help you, but nor will I hinder your progress. If you can find the path to your younger brother, you're welcome to take it."

"I already know the path." Edward scratched at some of the blood in his automail, glad it hadn't gummed up the mechanisms.

"Oh?" it answered with interest.

"There's only one way out." At that, he approached the humanoid light, which moved aside graciously. It was slightly taller than him, and incredibly sickly. Ed had no doubt that his thumb and finger would easily encircle the entirety of the being's arm—Al may have been out of the armour, but it seemed his body would always be against him.

Edward traced a flesh finger down the gap in the middle of his brother's Gate. It was roughly two inches in width, but he couldn't see anything through the space. It was as if everything just _disappeared_ as soon as it crossed the stone threshold. As he would.

One hand laid on the left of the crack; another settled opposite. And together, they pulled apart. For a long, unsettling moment, nothing happened. The Gate didn't open. The Truth merely watched him struggle and curse. His muscles strained, harder and harder, until he was sure that his skin would split open. The scream that tore out of his throat didn't belong to any creature—animal, human, or homunculus. And the moment stretched on…

And on…

And on…

Until, finally, Ed won.

It opened with the screech of stone on stone and a thunderous rumble. Automail shoulder first, he forced his way through and ignored the way his skin and metal was being scratched away on the sides of the Gate. Vaguely, he wondered if Al could sense him there.

Then came the hands.

One, and then dozens. Hundreds. _Thousands_! Within seconds, he was covered from head to toe in black, sleek palms. They were simultaneously hot and cold, hard and soft, cruel and gentle. With so many of them, they could afford to be all those and more. They drew him into the darkness, then released him, suspended by only three or four pairs and his own surreal weightlessness.

Just like his first experience, the ribbons started almost instantly. Unlike his first experience, Edward remained calm. The bands—like strips of film, though much clearer and more colourful than any he had seen—didn't show his past. It showed Alphonse's.

Their childhood—the time Ed put a bull ant down his shirt.

The death—their mother's eyes slipping closed for the last time.

Their mistake—Ed had never understood just how different it was for his sibling.

And it went on, detailing Al's history in chronological order. There, the military. There, Lior. Each scene grew faster, sped up, until they were barely more than blurs. Already, he was at the time of his disappearance. Ed felt every worry, every fear, that went through his younger brother's mind. He had expected it to stop once he noticed the pure white that signified their arrival in the void.

But it didn't.

It continued: having a body, the welcome party, the return to Risembool, Ed's funeral, marriage, children, grandchildren, old age, death. All within the space of a second. His entire life—once so grand and important to Ed—just seemed so quick. So insignificant. And Al was to live to be well over sixty—how much faster must Ed's record have been?

He was being selfish again, and he knew that. But he was allowed that liberty—he was in his final moments. The Gate was a symbol of Alphonse and his life; Ed was no more than a virus that had taken up temporary residence inside Al's soul. It was breaking him apart, piece by piece, like the unimportant and minute blemish he resembled in Al's existence. Just fourteen years. They had known each other for just _fourteen fucking years_.

"It's Friday," Ed whispered brokenly. His voice cracked and a single tear rolled away, quickly stolen by the Gate. It was taking everything. He wanted more than fourteen years with his brother. He wanted a lifetime.

"Friday.

"F-Friday. Friday.

"_Friday_—"

But the Gate won.

**So here is my favourite chapter. I hope you all liked it, too! Maybe leave a review?**

**Also, reading this again last night, I had to laugh at the name Martha Schlocks. I'm about 99% sure I got her from Marsaxlokk, in Malta, but I can't remember anymore :\**

**Next chapter's the epilogue!**


	19. Epilogue

_**THREE WISE MONKEYS**_

**Last chapter! Thanks to all those who've read and reviewed—especially the three kind people (BlueIsTheColourOfOurPlanet, Guest, and TheHaloFreak) for commenting on a chapter that took almost three weeks to write. It means a lot that you cared to say something! So I apologise for the lateness of this chapter. School got in the way.**

**And if anyone's interested, I've posted a new story (Illusory). It's just one chapter at the moment, but will be a total of six chapters all together.**

**That said, enjoy the last chapter! Maybe those who've stayed silent might review?**

**CHAPTER NINETEEN • Epilogue**

It was a cold day. The type of day that Ed would have hated—the type that turned his automail to ice and his loud voice to irate mutters. Clouds rolled through the sky, but not a single drop of the imminent rain had fallen. It was surely holding off until the burial.

Al shivered and clutched his jacket closer to himself, feeling the wind whip around his frail frame. The joys of discomfort had soon worn off after his return from the Gate; at first he had marvelled at every sensation—good or bad—but the novelty disappeared all too soon. When the cold seeped into his emancipated body, he experienced nothing but the cold. When his weak immune system made him sick, he was only sick. There was nothing good about feeling bad.

And although he had a face to smile, he had nothing to smile about. It was a waste, really—he should have been making use of the expressions his brother returned to him! But perhaps he had forgotten. It certainly felt as if he had. Not even Winry was about to coax a grin from him; it was as if his face was still shaped from metal, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He hadn't even cried. Not since that first night, the moment he appeared in the centre of Military Headquarters, naked and confused. The colonel had been there with an offered jacket and a sharp call for his men not to shoot. At the first touch, Alphonse had been unable to hide his flinch. It was nowhere near as amazing as he had imagined. He was sensitive to everything, and it just made him nauseous.

That was three weeks ago. Three weeks since he lost his older brother. Three weeks since he lost his family. Everything.

Al wasn't prone to swearing, but he would have if not for suffocating numbness hovering over him. Just like the sky, his mood was dark and threatening lightning at any moment. He was angry. It showed in the red flush over his sickly skin, in his clenched fists, and in the tautness of his shoulders.

He blinked hard, keeping his eyes closed for several unnecessary moments as he waited for the rage to pass. When he opened them again, Roy was staring at him in dulled curiosity, a question lurking behind his sorrowful visage.

'_Are you okay_?'

Everyone kept asking Alphonse if he was okay. Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you alright, Al? Alphonse? Alphonse Elric? Are you _fucking_ okay? Because it's okay if you're not—Edward was your brother. No one will judge you for crying. It's okay.

_No. It's not_.

Risembool was starting to feel like less of a childhood home, and more like a dumping ground for his bad memories. His mother's death happened at the top of that empty hill, but of course there had been a house there at that time. A house that bore witness to the birth of a monster. A house that no longer existed, burned down in a warped symbol of what they claimed to be determination. '_There's no turning back now_'. It wasn't determination. It was merely a childish act to erase their shame.

And the latest piece of crap to add to the pile: his brother.

There were only nine people at the funeral, set almost a full month after Ed's departure. Al wouldn't say 'death', because Edward never 'died'. He didn't have a word for what happened. Winter had set in rather quickly. The ground was hard already—it was lucky Al had no need to dig it himself. But as he clapped his hands together and placed them on the earth, he had been reluctant. It was only the eight in his expectant audience that spurred him onward. They thought they were there for him.

Oh, how wrong they were.

They weren't there for anyone. They were there for Ed. They all were. All nine of them—the only nine who didn't believe the newspapers. The only ones.

The only ones…

Even the coffin lying—empty—in the damp, gaping maw at his feet couldn't coax a single tear out of him. Al knew it was empty, and that was why his brother couldn't be dead. He was just missing. And with every minute—every _second_—Ed left Al alone, the younger felt more loss. He felt more hate. Towards _what_, he didn't know.

"Alphonse?" A hand settled on his upper arm and Al realised distantly that he had been keeling forward. His knees were shaky; his one crutch wasn't enough to keep him on his feet.

He met Winry's reddened gaze. "Yeah?"

"W-would you…" she had to break off, biting her fist as even more tears slipped from beneath closed lids. Taking in a shaky breath, Winry made the perfect picture of mourning. "Would you l-like to say… say a-a few words? For… E-E-Ed?"

Alphonse considered it. He really did. But there was nothing in the coffin. It was just a box, and nothing more. Edward wasn't inside, and it was worthless to pretend that he was.

"No," he said quietly, then shook his head in case she didn't hear. "I wanna get this over with."

Slowly, unsteadily, Al staggered to his knees. He was still so weak, despite the strict rehabilitation plan he followed each day. Just performing the simple transmutation to shift the dirt over the grave left him labouring for breath and unable to stand. Just that one, simple act.

Mustang took one of his arms, and Havoc took the other, but Alphonse shook them off before they could get a proper grip. "That's fine," he said, trying to infuse his dead voice with sincerity. "I can get back on my own."

"Al—" Winry began, and he cut her off, too.

"I'm _fine_, Winry." The smile he affixed to the end of that statement was fake, and obviously so. "I'll be there in a minute."

She sniffed softly and searched his face for any sign of a lie. "You will? Promise?"

At that last, desperate, word, Al was reminded of another promise. One that Al had allowed Ed to break.

'_The next time I make you cry, they'll be tears of joy!_'

Yeah. Right.

He nodded. "Promise. I just wanna visit Mum while I'm here."

Winry's expression fell once more, her lower lip trembling as she fought to keep her voice steady. "Please don't leave now, Al. G-Granny and I, we c-can—y-you can stay with us. Please. Please, Al."

Wobbling slightly, he relinquished his hold on his crutch to grasp both of her shoulders. He wanted it to be reassuring, but it only caused more tears. "We can talk about this later, Winry. Please, just go."

"Winry." Pinako gently steered her granddaughter away, towards the road where Roy and his team waited. "Let it rest for now."

Any retaliation she may have been preparing never left her lips. Instead, angrily, she scrubbed at her blotchy face and spun away. Pinako's arm slipped around her granddaughter's waist, and together they hurried away. Winry never even threw him a backwards glace, for which he was grateful. Whatever shadow of a smile he had forced into his expression had faded—Al was too practical to believe he could find it again.

And finally—_at last_!—he was alone. Just him and the ghosts.

Carefully, he hobbled away from the fresh grave and over to one much older. The stone was slightly worn, but still clearly legible. He knelt down before it, his sickly knees resting atop his mother's heart, and leant forward to trace his fingers over the carved words.

_TRISHA ELRIC_

_1878 ~ 1904_

Soon, a similar inscription would be dedicated to her eldest son.

Alphonse didn't know how to start. How could he tell his mother that he had lost his brother? Edward had never lost him—at least, never so far he couldn't be retrieved. Unbidden, an old memory assaulted him. Al, barely three years of age, had followed Ed and Winry to school. Somehow, he had wandered off and been unable to find his way back through the two or three roads in Risembool. Edward had stumbled upon his distraught form later that afternoon, given him an appraising glare, and then dragged him home by his dampened sleeve. He'd taken him home.

"Is he with you now, Mum?" Al asked, finally finding the words he so desperately wanted to say. "I-I mean, not in the _ground_… with you. I wanna know if he made it past the Truth. O-or if… if he even had a… a _s-soul _ anymore! I know he's not _here_. We buried something, but it wasn't him. It wasn't Brother." Al rubbed the heel of his hand against his eyes, laughing hollowly. "The colonel said only I-I came back. So… Mum? Can I ask you something?"

The first drop of many fell from the sky, staining Trisha's grave and rolling down in a shining pearl. It was soon followed by another, and another, and Al started to shiver as the temperature plummeted even further from comfort. He had decided fairly quickly that he didn't like the cold.

"I wanted to ask…" he continued. "No—I just wanted to… talk? I-I dunno. J-just… What would Brother do in my position? Because I feel so _useless_, Mum! Even after a-all we did… to you… I can't help but wanna do the same for him. I'm-I'm _sure_ that if I just d-do more research, I could bring him back. I-I-I wanna hear _why_ he did that!

"I wanna know what he was thinking!" Al's voice grew louder and louder, straining under the pressure and the anguish he forced into it. "And I know what you'd say, Mum, but it's not right! He _didn't_ do this 'cause he loved me! I-I—he _couldn't_ do this if he really cared _at all_! Was I just another challenge to him, Mum? First he-he wanted to bring _you_ back, and then he does—does _this_! W-was I just another one of-of his… accomplishments? H-he wanted to see if he could bring me back—i-is that it?" Al took a deep, shuddering gasp and released it slowly. His clothes were soaked, the heavy layers clinging to him in a chilly embrace. "I don't know if I hate him, or love him, Mum. It's all… so confusing. I don't know what to do. I don't know… what to do. And I know you can't really help, but…" he smiled a crooked smile—the most genuine one he had given for years. "I guess this wasn't too hard."

He wavered to his feet, his shaking arms struggling to lift him onto his crutch. "Maybe I'll come back soon. If Winry ever lets me out, I mean. You know how she is, Mum—I'll have a problem when she sees me in the rain like this."

For a moment, Alphonse imagined that he heard his mother, laughing gently beneath the grumbles of the coming storm. But then that moment passed, and all he heard was water lashing himself and the earth around him. The world had descended into a dark, murky landscape, quite similar to those on the old camera he and Ed had once found. Everything was blurred, white, and grey.

But some of the rain felt warmer than the rest. The drops that hit his face lacked the frigid properties of their brothers and sisters—they were hot, stinging his eyes when they landed. He wasn't crying.

He couldn't.

**XxX**

Mustang tried his hardest not to say anything. Really—he did. Even when the boy arrived at the doorstep blue at the mouth and shivering so hard the movement had evolved into a vibration of sorts, he hadn't spoken a word. It wasn't his place.

Besides, it wasn't as if he was at all needed—Winry was more than enough, and much more adept than he could never be. What the hell could the great Flame alchemist do in the way of comfort? Slap him on the back and offer him a lie? No. No, he couldn't do that.

And that was what made his current predicament even worse.

"So, uh, Alphonse," Roy said, trying to keep the discomfort out of his tone. The teen that had once been a suit of armour hadn't even met his eye since arriving in Military Headquarters. It was unnerving. Even now they sat in near-silence, after Al requested they be left alone. But so far, almost ten minutes had passed without either of them uttering a single syllable.

"Don't." Al shifted on the couch, pulling his blankets tighter around his shoulders. His hair was damp, slightly darker than usual. "You don't have to say anything yet. I wanted to ask you something first."

Roy dipped his head in acknowledgment. "I know. So what is it?"

"Too many things." Al sighed, then shivered and inched closer to the small fireplace. "But I wanna get it over with tonight. You should understand."

Examining the red-rimmed eyes surrounded by dark shadows, Mustang found that Al was right—he _did_ understand. Whether the boy knew it or not, he owned the eyes of a murderer, without ever having killed. Roy found himself almost wishing that Al was still encase in metal—at least, that way, he wouldn't be able to see such an expression on someone so young.

"It wasn't Brother, was it?" the younger started, once the silence began to stretch. "He didn't… It wasn't him that killed all those people… Right?"

Mustang attempted to conjure up a reassuring smile, but nothing happened. He couldn't do that any more than he could provide comfort. "Of course it wasn't, Alphonse. Even if that thing _had_ been Ed, it was just a homunculus by then."

Al's knuckles stood out painfully as his grip tightened, and he shook his head. "That's not what I mean. It… was too _neat_ to be Brother. A-and to have the l-last night at Headquarters was… too _perfect_. You thought it was a trap for us," at that, Al dared to meet Roy's slightly startled gaze, "But it was really a trap for him."

"And that was a Friday," Mustang continued where Al stopped, resisting the urge to run a hand through his black hair. "Exactly three weeks after that strange incident with the pub. He…" Roy threw a nervous glance at his companion. "Fullmetal told me once that… He told me it was _him_."

Al's lips tightened to a thin, white line. "A week ago," he said dryly, "I wouldn't have believed that. Now I'm… I'm not sure. I think… I think I believe it… now." And it was quiet, for quite a long time. Roy was readying himself to leave when his unwilling company spoke. "Why didn't you tell me what he said?"

Mustang groaned softly and bent forward, hiding his face behind his pristine gloves. He didn't want Alphonse to see his expression; he didn't want Alphonse to know just how much the memory affected him. "I don't _know_, Alphonse! He-he asked me not to, that stupid brat. And I… And I didn't know how to bring that up, besides."

"You could've stopped this," Al condemned him in a voice of tempered steel. The edge was so sharp that Mustang felt it sever his vocal cords, leaving him lost for words. "He told you 'cause he knew you could've stopped it. He was asking for your _help_, Mustang! Not for you to-to _listen_ to him! You know he's—"

"Don't, Alphonse," the colonel warned. His voice came out muffled from between his tense fingers. "I know what he was like, but you weren't _there_. That wasn't your brother—" he leant backwards to meet the boy's angry golden eyes, "I thought he was gonna put his blade between my shoulders!"

"You let him leave."

"I let the _homunculus_ leave."

Al's mouth curled into a snarl. "You started it. You made him go after that _bastard_."

"_I know_!" Roy's vision flashed a series of chaotic colours, and then he was on his feet. "_I know_ that! I started this the moment I stepped through _that door_—" he gestured wildly to the front of the Rockbell's home, "—and offered your brother a position in the military! It was a _stupid_ idea! A _stupid, stupid_ idea! A-and now he's paying for it! _He's_ the one being blamed for what _I did to him_! _He's_ the one being blamed for over twelve deaths, and I can't even find evidence to-to prove his innocence! _Fuck!_ I don't even _know_ if he really is innocent!"

"Of course he is!" Alphonse snapped, fists trembling at his sides.

"There's no _proof_!"

Roy refused to let himself back down beneath Al's glare, no matter how intimidating it was. The boy possessed a face as gaunt as the dead, and an anger belonging only to those who have lived too long. It was difficult not to look away when the person owning those two qualities was no older than fourteen.

The standoff continued until the colour washed out of Alphonse's complexion and he wavered on his feet. As he started to fall, Mustang grabbed his upper arm and guided him down to the couch. Al let him; all of his will to fight had left, replaced with an emotion that had often graced his elder brother. It made sense. It made sense that Alphonse felt guilty.

"I, um," he said, unable to meet Roy's eyes. Not that that was a problem. "I never thought to ask."

Roy moved towards his previous armchair slowly, trying to gain control over the burning in his gut. If only it was as simple as clicking his fingers. "Thought to ask what?"

"What happened to Jeremy Colt."

"They're looking for a body." Mustang rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But I doubt they'll find one. I doubt there was ever a Jeremy Colt, aside for the one on paper."

Al frowned. "Then… Envy?"

"The shape shifter. And the girl—Lucy—she disappeared, too," Roy muttered. His body was heavy with fatigue, but he had to finish. "Officially, both Jeremy and Lucy have been pronounced missing, presumed dead."

Nodding, Alphonse stifled a yawn. "But they were both Envy, weren't they?"

"We can't say for sure," Mustang replied, then said in a quieter voice, "Is that all you wanted to ask?"

Immediately, Al shook his head, appearing awake and focused, despite the shadows beneath his eyes. "Just one more thing."

When Alphonse boldly, determinedly, set his gaze on Mustang, Roy couldn't help the flutter of apprehension running through his limbs. There was fire in those eyes—enough to send him back five years, to the first time he met his youngest subordinate. Roy was adept at recognising flames, though, and Al's were bordered by frost.

"Let me join the military."

Somehow, the demand came as no shock. "Alphonse—"

"Let me join the military," Al insisted. "I don't have to fight. I can do research—"

"To do what?" Roy interrupted sharply. "To bring your brother back?"

Inclining his head in recognition, Al said, "Yes."

Mustang watched, waiting, perhaps, for a sign of doubt. But, just like his brother, Alphonse was an Elric. There would be no deterring him—not when he had a goal. Edward had achieved his goal. Not even the loss of his life was too high a cost.

Roy's expression hardened. "Then I must refuse."

Al's face flew open in shock. "But wh—"

"I'm _not_ having another dead Elric on my conscious!" Mustang ignored Al's flinch. "If you want to spend the rest of your life regretting _Edward's_ decision, you can do that. But I'm not giving you military funding to do so."

Without a word, Alphonse reached down for his crutches and, slowly, limped his way out of the dining room. His frustration rested on Roy like a tangible being. It was only once he left that Mustang allowed his eyes to close, a large, silent sigh heaving out of his chest.

He really hated Risembool.

"Sir?"

Roy jumped, embarrassingly, and twisted towards the other door. Riza closed it behind her with a soft _click_ and offered him a rare smile. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and instead of the usual blue uniform, she wore a pale green robe over sensible pyjamas.

"Did we wake you, Lieutenant?" Roy asked quietly, rubbing his eyes in tired irritation.

Her slippers tapped along the wooden floors, and she took the seat that Alphonse had vacated. "I think you woke everyone, sir."

Roy muttered a short apology, but aside from that, could find nothing else to say.

"You did the right thing, sir."

Mustang snorted. "Yeah?"

"Yes, sir."

"But…" He frowned into the shelter of his hand. "What if he _can_ find some way—"

"And what if he can't?" Riza countered. Roy looked up into her dark brown eyes, and saw the same calm resolve that had become so familiar. "There's nothing to gain in walking in circles. Sir."

He let out a humourless laugh and fell into the soft embrace of the armchair. "I guess you're right, Lieutenant," Roy murmured, almost inaudibly. Riza didn't reply, so he gave another sigh and allowed an unpleasant smile to twist his lips. "What happens now?"

"Now, you try to sleep." Clothes rustled as the lieutenant stood and straightened her robe, beginning the short walk to her temporary bedroom. "Tomorrow, we go back to Central. And the day after that, we try to forget."

"Mm," Roy hummed in agreement. Though not even a proper word, it managed to sound bitter nonetheless. "Tomorrow's Monday."

_Monday._

_Monday._


End file.
